


For Fear Tonight Is All

by Silberias



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angry Uncle Tully, Bisexual Female Character of Color, Bisexual Male Character, Canon Bisexual Character, Explicit Consent, F/F, F/M, I really truly mean it do not google gout I already puked for your sins, Multi, Oberyn and Ellaria are good to Sansa, Polyamory, Recovery from trauma, The Martell Brothers are plotsy, accidental epic, don't google gout, dragons are just really big scary lizard cats made of murder and hatred and cuddles, molasses speed, no seriously do NOT google gout, trans!Alleras
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-20 14:07:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 98
Words: 236,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2431607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silberias/pseuds/Silberias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tyrion knew, as he gazed up at the dark skinned Martell man that this was perhaps his only chance to spirit Sansa out of King's Landing and away from his father's greedy fingers. Tywin Lannister would have married the girl himself if he felt he could have gotten away with it, and so Tyrion knew his own marriage was no protection to Ned Stark's daughter whatsoever. </p><p>"Invite her, demand her, steal her--whatever you choose, Prince Oberyn, choose it soon. Else my lady wife shall break into more pieces than the stars."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tyrion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic is by the lovely SighingWinter.

 

 

  


 

** Prologue **

Before the man could go back into the brothel where Ellaria Sand and Bronn were, Tyrion grabbed at the man's wrist. Most men could stop another, but Tyrion knew it was always a vain hope when he tried. Except for now--the man afforded him the barest courtesy of stopping. Those dark, Rhoynish eyes glittered down at him and he swallowed hard at what he was about to suggest. In another time, with different deaths, he and Sansa might have been very happy to take up the titles of Lord and Lady of the Westerlands. That was not to be their future however.

Tyrion knew, as he gazed up at the dark skinned Martell man that this was perhaps his only chance to spirit Sansa out of King's Landing and away from his father's greedy fingers. Tywin Lannister would have married the girl himself if he felt he could have gotten away with it, and so Tyrion knew his own marriage was no protection to Ned Stark's daughter whatsoever.

"Take my wife, Sansa, to Dorne with you when you leave here. Invite her, demand her, steal her--whatever you choose, Prince Oberyn, choose it soon. Else my lady wife shall break into more pieces than the stars." He spoke as quietly as he possibly could, barely audible. Prince Oberyn's alarmed surprise was palapable, but his fingers wrapped around Tyrion's wrist in return.

"But you are married, you--you once partook of many but no more. They will never give her to me, Tyrion Lannister, not after you've had her. Not after her blood coated your cock." And then there was silence as they stared at one another. Silences were safely eloquent between angry men and this time was no different as Prince Oberyn's eyebrows raised and then lowered and then his mouth slacked just slightly as his brows raised again. Yes--there was once again an innocent woman in King's Landing that Lord Tywin Lannister had ordered tortured to death, and this time Prince Oberyn might yet save her.

"Demand her and please--please take her from here. Let her be safe to weep, give her faces to trust her unguarded moments with. I am a Lannister, she will neither weep nor trust while she is mine. Lady Sansa is not safe here any more than your sister was years ago."

Prince Oberyn's grip firmed slightly and he nodded before dropping their brief grasp.

"I will do my utmost."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and I hope that you enjoy the story! Feel free to chime in whenever you want :D


	2. Tyrion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion's gamble pays off. As much as it hurts to give up such a lovely woman as Sansa, he knows better than to keep her for himself.

It was two days before Tyrion knew the outcome of his gamble. Prince Oberyn had had a private meeting with Tywin the previous afternoon and now there was an emergency meeting of the King's Council--and Tyrion didn't know if he should pray for the King's presence or not. Joffrey was always a wildcard, and his Tyrell-betrothed would not be present to keep him in line.

The room was smoky as always, the smoke from a thousand candles in all the floors below accumulating here in these airless passages. The long table held his father, Varys, Prince Oberyn--and surprisingly Sansa and Shae. Tyrion swallowed his bittersweet joy that Prince Oberyn had obviously done as he asked. Sansa was a beautiful girl and would grow into a beautiful woman--but not here. Not under Joffrey Baratheon.

"Lord Tyrion, I've heard tell over the last hour that Lady Sansa Lannister remains unbedded and her purity intact. She had...a moment...two days ago in the gardens with Prince Oberyn and admitted to _him_ she has not been bedded. He claims she begged him do it so that a child would fill her and relieve her shame of childlessness--I recall that you were told to put a child in her that would grow up as heir to Winterfell and Casterly Rock. You have been so remiss in this that your wife would present a Dornish bastard to the world than be accused of a barren womb--a shame she ill deserves to earn, given her Tully mother's ability to produce children."

Normally this would have been a conversation between only himself and Tywin--or even at least himself, Tywin, and Sansa. But this was the third time his father was telling him to do his duty as a husband and Tywin Lannister did not take disobedience lightly--especially when it appeared to Tywin at least that Sansa's Northron spirit of honor had been at last broken. Tyrion schooled his face into shock and dismay instead of the glee that his plan was about to work. Somehow.

Prince Oberyn stood up to fetch another wine jug and spoke thoughtfully as he walked back and poured wine for all who had cups.

"I find I must be honest, my lady, please take no offense," he said as he set a cup before Sansa before rounding on Tywin. "I do not want a child of mine left here to freeze and shiver come Winter, so I declined Lady Sansa's pleas but thought better of the choice before long--please, my lady, do not fret that I found you in any way lacking for I most certainly find you both lovely and brave." Sansa managed a mortified nod, staring at her hands in her lap. Then, to Tyrion, Oberyn continued: "I thought, and your father agrees, if she has not known a man she is not truly a wife. If she is not a wife then she may place her affections freely, as she already has. Surely the High Septon will agree to an annullment in light of this--and my brother would be only too grateful that I return home with strong alliances and a wife. He nags me so." His words were slow and whimsical, playing this political game as well as any scheming courtier.

A tiny and quite insignificant part of Tyrion wondered if Sansa really had done as they implied or if she had seen her escape and taken it with both hands. Regardless of which was true, Tyrion admired her courage. She would survive the Lannisters and live her life peacefully in Dorne among the Martells who were every inch as fiercely protective as they were made out to be.

"My lady, is this true--you threw yourself to a man in the gardens you knew nothing of? What of me, my family name? The comforts and safety you have known from me, from my father? Your pardoning despite the actions of your family? Have we meant nothing to you that you would sit a bastard on not only my father's seat but your own father's as well?" He had to act the cuckold, just a little bit. Else his father would never believe the charade. Tears welled in Sansa's eyes as he spoke and he dearly--dearly--wished that he might have been able to prepare her for the shock.

"That is not true," Sansa murmured, her voice wobbling from contained sobs, and Tyrion's hope deflated like badly made bread. His sister often called Sansa stupid but he had not believed it until now as Sansa raised wavering eyes to meet his across the table. However she continued speaking, picking up a little steam as she went. Her voice grew higher, near hysteric, "I knew he was high born, I knew he was Dornish, and I knew that in a few weeks' time he would be gone and never return to claim a bastard mothered by a traitor's daughter. I did not expect my shame to become known to my goodfamily--that I arouse nothing in my husband. Lord Tyrion was consulting a...house of sighing... when I met Prince Oberyn."

Tywin was watching her closely, looking for whatever lie she might have come up with but there was nothing. Dorne was a difficult journey, it was (very privately) true that Tyrion's cock literally wilted at the idea of fucking a traumatized girl of fourteen, and most important of all Varys' spies would have seen him entering Littlefinger's brothel and not coming out of it for a goodly time. He had sent Pod along to inform her of his whereabouts to keep her from worrying--and now he looked like a callous man forcing a young wife to suffer childlessness.

"Since I did not catch you with your whores, Tyrion, I shall not hang them but I shall free your wife from her vows to you. Lady Sansa will revert to being a ward of the Hand of the King after the annullment, which is taking place within the day thanks to Varys' evidence."

"Father she is my wife--"

"Who you did not take possession of! A fine wife of excellent family with an inheritance for at least two of your children, thrown away for whores!" his father roared, startling even Shae as she stood just behind her lady. Sansa's eyes were glued to the table once more, acting until called otherwise as a shamed woman who had attempted to take solace in another man's arms. He had not realized how badly she wanted out of his life until this very moment, and he also had not realized how strong her acting ability had become since she'd arrived in King's Landing.

"I will of course tell our children how we met, Lord Tyrion. Lady Sansa will make a fine mother of bold Martells." Prince Oberyn said laughingly around a cup of wine. Sansa was biting her lips fiercely now to keep her expression the same--Tyrion thanked the gods that his father paid little attention to her and that Varys wasn't on Tywin's side at this second. Tyrion himself was probably the only person in the room save Shae who could read Sansa.

By midday the High Septon had been brought before them and heard the testimony of those gathered. Tyrion admitted that he had seen whores since his marriage and that he had not taken his wife to bed--and that he did not intend to, finding fault with her too-youthful body, and confirming that he had denied his wife her marital rights. Sansa corroborating his story, adding in her own desperate 'actions' of the day in question--those actions being confirmed by Prince Oberyn as well. Finally Shae was asked if Sansa's bed was ever stained with virgin blood--and it was at her word that the marriage had been annulled. Servants always told the truth in such matters.

By sundown, Sansa Stark wed Oberyn Martell--and by breakfast the next day a bedding sheet was presented to gentle congratulations all around save from Tyrion who chose to look thunderous. It wasn't hard, because he had thought Prince Oberyn might also delay his rights as a husband so as to spare the girl more torment. Sansa was pale and he was glad that his obligaton to inquire about her mental state was relinquished--but she was safe with Oberyn Martell, even if she didn't yet know it. If her hands shook as she raised her cup to her lips, Tyrion chose not to notice, and if there was a flick of distrust in her face when Oberyn gleefully tried to feed her this morsel or that then Tyrion ignored this as well. In Dorne it would be safe for her to distrust others and show it, and so all was well. It had to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beeeecause reasons. I think by the time they marry Sansa off to Tyrion, and most especially after they marry her off to him, she is pretty canny to how the plots and plans of King's Landing evolve. I think she would take her chance to get out of the city with both hands.


	3. Ellaria, Oberyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the belated update, a few comments had me realizing that there was a gap here in the story. A gap that I've fixed and made all pretty. So here we go!

Ellaria's appetite for their lovely afternoon was spoiled by Oberyn's solemn face as he returned from speaking with the dwarf Lannister. She could endure a few interruptions, she didn't mind them so much as people would have assumed--and neither did she mind too much her love's reaction to the boisterous Lannister guards. If she could not handle Oberyn at his murderous, she would never have captured his interest for these last years. No, Ellaria knew this serious side of him that so few living people had ever seen.

Her love was like a raw nerve, his movements sinuous and overly controlled, his eyes squinted and wild. Ellaria let him wrap an arm around her in a half-hug before he started pacing. She'd sent their entertainment away, and so they were left alone in this opulent room with only their ghosts. The little man had obviously said something to unsettle the ineffable Oberyn Martell, and that alone was worrisome enough.

"My love I have to choose. I have to choose between my enemies and the dead," he finally murmured, rubbing at his forehead and slowing his pacing. Ellaria cautiously walked to him, taking his arm and stilling his restless motion. His eyes were far away, even as he glanced at her with a barely-there smile.

"Surely that imp has not found some hold over you that must be heeded?" Oberyn shook his head, holding her close.

"He has put a task to me, one that must distract me from my mission to expose Elia's murderers. I promised Doran I would not fail--and I promised myself I would not fail. But this--my love, they are breaking another girl. These Lannisters are not satisfied with Elia's murder, they seek to kill another like her," his eyes were haunted as he spoke of his dead sister, "but this time by slow poison."

"The imp gloated this and lived?" It shocked her more than anything--Oberyn's rage had long cooled to exist beneath the surface when she met him, but it lay always just beneath his skin. Few enough people survived his wrath that she now wondered how he'd killed the Lannister dwarf with so little blood. Her love was shaking his head, though, and she did not interrupt him as he revealed his troubled heart to her.

 

* * *

 

Tywin Lannister was never a man that Oberyn wanted to spend time with. He was not interested in the military or political prowess the man was famed for, he was not interested in the man's supposed wealth, and he was not interested in the man's health. It left little enough to talk about, and they both knew it--so of course when he asked for a meeting with the Hand of the King it was granted more out of curiosity than anything else. What could the Red Viper of Dorne have to say to Tywin Lannister?

What indeed, Oberyn thought as he waited for Lord Tywin to finish writing a letter. It was out of the most basic common courtesy, something even Oberyn had trouble foregoing with his greatest enemies. His thoughts turned to Lady Sansa, and the sweet blush of a kiss on her lips as he strode away the day before. They'd only had a moment before the spy came around the corner, following him as he'd suspected all day, but she had hesitated only briefly before surging up on her toes to press her mouth to his. Even if this gamble failed, he would kiss her again before leaving for Dorne.

"I do wonder, Prince Oberyn, what has happened that you must seek my counsel." His introspection must have shown on his face, prompting the Hand's question.

"Oh, I must seek your counsel as it is the only counsel a man in my predicament might have, Lord Tywin," he replied with a smile. Just because he was without interest in _Tywin's_ accomplishments did not mean he was without his own. This was a game he well remembered, for he had played it all his life. So much right now rested on 'ifs'--if Sansa allowed herself to be rescued, he would send word to some of the crazier smugglers in Essos that a direwolf from north of the Wall would fetch a pretty price. Meanwhile, his words caught Lord Tywin's attention in just the way he'd intended them to.

" _My_ counsel? I am the Hand of the King, little else for a Prince of Dorne to concern himself with."

"It is in regards to your gooddaughter, Lady Sansa. She...confided in me yesterday as I was admiring the gardens. The lady claims her husband will not bed her, spends time with whores when he goes into the city, and leaves her alone in her grief without even a child to comfort her. They have been married for some months, I've heard."

A muscle worked in the other man's jaw and Oberyn knew he'd hit on an old argument. It wouldn't be much longer before Lord Tywin did something drastic such as bed the girl himself to get a 'proper' heir for Casterly Rock. Oberyn had seen it done in Essos, and even in the Stormlands and Highgarden it wasn't unheard of. He could not imagine little Lady Sansa's horror should she endure such an event, but he well knew that it would break her beyond all hope of repair.

"It is true that my gooddaughter has not conceived an heir for her husband's seat nor her father's. What brought such a scandalous confession to your ears, though?" Oberyn waited half a moment for the other man to lift a goblet to his lips and then--

"She asked me to do the honor, as it stands, and put a child in her," Lord Tywin nearly spilled the wine, "She accepts that her husband is so disgusted by her that he will not take her, but it pains her to have lost so much family. A babe would be a salve on her wounds, she said, and at least please her goodfamily for producing an heir."

"And you chose to see me regarding this because...?"

"I simply propose you give her to me outright. I will take her as wife and she will name one of your sons as her regent in the North. I will not leave her with my bastard and a husband who might brutalize her for the child's sake. I think the whole arrangement a fine trade. My brother will agree to Dornish peace, for my children's inheritance shall then ride on Dorne's good behavior, and you will have your rule over the North." He bit his tongue on _as pitiful as that will be without a Stark in Winterfell, which is as pitiful as Sunspear without Martells._

"Worthy points, Prince Oberyn, " Lord Tywin said. Oberyn graciously inclined his head, for he certainly thought so, "however please understand that I must make my own inquiries into this situation. We shall reconvene tomorrow morning and reach a decision then if that suits you?" And cue the paper-shuffling--Oberyn stood to go, bowing his head in mocking deference.

"Of course, Lord Tywin. You shall have some uncomfortable conversations to take up your afternoon," he said, a laugh trailing his words as Lord Tywin's eyebrow flicked up sarcastically. The man was a bit like Doran, with everything kept so carefully controlled and so close beneath his vest. Save for the fact that Lord Tywin was a cold-blooded murderer of women and children, they might have had much to speak of in another life.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am considering a graphic of some sort to go with this story, and I don't want to just steal one of the manips from the OberynxSansa tag. Is there anyone who would maybe be willing to do that--and what would you want in return for it? 
> 
> That being said, thank you everyone for the overwhelming support! Please let me know what you think!


	4. Oberyn, Sansa

Lady Sansa wore a widow's shift to their marriage, attended only by the King's Council and Oberyn's personal retinue in the Sept. The undyed gray cloth was reminiscent to her Stark colors, and she made a beautiful picture with his finest orange cloak draped about her small shoulders. Ellaria was already having a hey-day going through her trunks and his own looking for an appropriate outfit to put Sansa in for the evening. Much of the girl's clothing had been replaced for new finery after her wedding to Tyrion Lannister and he refused-- _refused_ \--to wed and sup with a bride clothed in lion skins. He would dress her in his own tunics if he had to until some dresses were made up.

Her body was warm and lovely to hold close when he kissed her. Lady Sansa's eyes were her only betrayal of feeling, for she was supple in her movements and there was a happy smile on her lips. It was her eyes that had him dragging a kiss on the apple of her cheek, whispering into her ear as she easily turned into him.

"Crinkle your eyes, my love, it fools better than a maiden's smile." He nipped a kiss at her lips as he came back from her ear. A grin straight off of his own face met him then, and her eyes were crinkled as suggested. It gave tears a happy twinkle and concealed the redness they left behind. He had certainly wept enough in his life, he knew how to hide the evidence.

He leaned a bit away from her, laughing as he laced up his cloak to cover that her breasts were unbound beneath her shift. She took his lead and giggled along with him, but he saw her winding her fingers into her shift with nerves. They would have to walk from the Sept to her rooms in the Keep, and people would see her in only the barest amount of clothing acceptable for such a highborn lady. Hopefully Ellaria would be waiting for her, ready to deck her in Dornish fashions.

The sunlight wasn't as bright as that of Sunspear when they opened the doors of the Sept, so he didn't squint even though Sansa did. There were few enough people of Dorne here in the king's city since the death of his sister, but they turned out in the colors of House Martell along the streets near the Sept. Although, he noticed on closer inspection, a surprising number of them had pale Northron faces and he knew that it was not Sansa Martell they had come to see. Their eyes were on Sansa Stark, Princess of Winterfell, Queen in the North, with her second would-be husband at her side. It wasn't safe to wear the gray of the Starks, but few enough would find fault with Martell orange and red today.

* * *

 

Her husband's lover awaited her in her chamber, a feral smile upon her face as she watched Sansa edge into the room. Oberyn had kissed her fingertips, saying he would return for her at the evening meal. Ellaria Sand was as dark as Oberyn, her accent similar to Margaery's but with the same murky Rhoynish sounds Oberyn voiced, and the woman's clothing was a vision of gilded silks and lace. Sansa's embarrassment at her near nakedness faded though as she watched Ellaria's silks flutter to reveal daring hemlines.

There was no reason to expect that Oberyn would give this woman up, and it was better to make her an ally than enemy.

"I gave him this for his nameday two years ago," Ellaria said, brushing careful fingers on the embroidered sun that splayed across the chest. Sansa did not shiver under this inspection, knowing already that she would be stripped bare later this evening and that this was not to be her worst humiliation today. She was simply glad that Ellaria had not slapped her, but still drew in a calming breath when those fingers cupped her cheek.

"He has promised he will not traumatize you." Sansa's brows must have quirked, for Ellaria quickly lowered her voice and leaned closer. "He will not force himself on you. Oberyn is a good man to his companions. Have faith, my love."

 _My love_. It reminded her so much of the Queen's words, but these were different. Oberyn had said it too--both days ago in the gardens, and today again. She wondered what future such innocent words predicted. They had done poorly by her so far.

"Now, you are no widow. You are a warrior princess, Sansa Martell, and I," a teasing lilt entered Ellaria's tone that reminded Sansa of dear Margaery, "have pillaged a fitting tribute for my lady. You will present yourself as you are now, but," she fingered at the ties holding the cloak closed, "the wife of Oberyn Martell will emerge when you arrive at the feast."

Sansa stared at her, finally taking in a steadying breath.

"Will you be there?" A laughing smile graced Ellaria's face and she shook her head as her fingers finally began unlacing the cloak over Sansa's shoulders. Laid out on the chaise were several items appropriated from Ellaria's own wardrobe, along with what looked like something her flamboyant husband would wear. Some pieces even looked like armor.

"Oberyn already demanded it, but was rebuffed. That he's been given you is enough, he was told. We shall share a solar beginning tomorrow, though, and that will be enough for us until we leave for Dorne--which cannot come soon enough. This is an evil place, for your family, for mine, and for Oberyn himself."

So this is what it would be like to share a man and know about it, Sansa thought as Ellaria lifted the orange cloak from her shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kind words and interest in this story! Please let me know what you think of this chapter, as we get to know what kind of life our Sansa is going to be having. And that wedding night chapter is coming, worry not! (though it may be different than you expect)


	5. Oberyn

Oberyn very _very_ quietly got himself off in the dark hours of the night, having lain awake long enough to know Sansa slept and that he was unlikely to wake her. A little blood let from his hip--a place unlikely to be seen accidentally in the next few days while it healed--mixed with his production was then dripped onto and worked into the sheet he'd stolen from the bed before letting Sansa rest. A fabricated piece of evidence, to carry through his story of willingly taking such a lady to wife.

He had kissed her to sleep, hours ago, telling her again and again that she would be safe when she awoke, and now she would be. He was enthralled by her still naive kisses--and perhaps Ellaria was right, they were of an age where they ought to seek longterm companions rather than whores and lusty nobles. Lady Sansa was a choice of necessity, but he found he would not mind her. She was a pretty lass, and would grow prettier when the shadows lifted from beneath her eyes.

Ellaria had punched his arm _hard_ the when he'd told her of Tyrion's plea and his own concerns of revenge on The Mountain. It had taken that pain and the look on his love's face to know his path. The Mountain was as indestructible now as he had been twenty years ago--that fire would continue to burn if he left it be. And after his brief meeting with Lady Sansa he found she was as Lord Tyrion had said: breaking into more pieces than the stars. There might be justice for the long dead--for Elia, and Rhaenys, and Aegon--or there might be justice for the living and the recently dead. Ellaria had told him, before he left the brothel to seek out Lady Sansa, that his decision ought to be easy and curiously it was.

He admired her now as she slept. She had hair as red as fire in the candlelight and though her eyes were blue, when open they looked as sombre as Ned Stark's had been twenty odd years ago upon delivering Elia's bones to Sunspear. Her skin would brown under the Dornish sun and her feet would toughen from walking on Dornish sand. She was too trusting, too good, but he would save her since she was only brave enough to let him.

When he'd collected his new wife from her chamber before supper he made gentle conversation with her and Ellaria until a servant's footsteps echoed in the hallway. Oberyn ushered Sansa close and kissed her, for the benefit of whatever rumors might have begun growing since this morning. Once the staring maid had gone on her way, he led Sansa to the great feasting hall where the court was gathered for the evening meal. The king had ordered the event into an impromptu wedding feast--a frenzied joy taking him that his hated uncle had been forced to give up his wife.

Sansa wore what was probably Ellaria's brightest gown, a rich yellow embroidered with blood red serpents whose eyes glittered onyx. They wound around the skirt of the gown and braided themselves up to the bodice. Eight serpent heads, mouths gaping silvery fangs, crowded the neckline. His mantle of orange over this dress then brought to mind a flame, one as hot and deadly as dragon fire. Perhaps the people of the North earlier today had been correct in their assumption--this woman was Sansa Stark, and he only another would-be-husband and weak claimant on her inheritance.

"Prince Oberyn and his wife Sansa, your Grace," they waited at the entrance of the hall after their announcement, and Oberyn wondered if he would have bruises from how tightly Sansa clutched at his arm. King Joffrey rose and greeted them in some backhanded fashion, nothing that could stick to Oberyn and nothing he would allow to stick to Sansa. The Tyrell girl kissed his cheek when he sat again, and though her body was angled in flirtatious attention to the king her eyes betrayed her worries.

The courtiers in attendance gawked at the Dornish prince and his little wife--her dress was cut low and cinched tight, the colors making her look alien against the dull ivories and purples favored by the court. He flirted shamelessly with her, whispering encouragement and hints when he leaned close, and held her hand for most of the night.

"It is customary in the crownlands for the bride to stand to receive congratulations on her marriage," a young Lannister knight muttered just after dessert had been served, staring Sansa down as though he was accustomed to her compliance. Oberyn rubbed a comforting circle on her wrist with his thumb before leaning forward to educate the youth.

"It is customary in Dorne to address a prince or princess of House Martell as such, and to present a newlywed princess with a dagger to be given to her firstborn. Unless you are presenting my wife a wedding gift, she shall not stand for anyone less than the King." The young knight was glowering by the time he finished speaking, but made no move to leave their table. Oberyn stared up, popping a grape from the bunch and rolling it between his fingers to keep from going for his dagger.

"If you insist, _Ser_ , run along and get the King's ear. I am sure His Grace will appreciate being distracted from his Lady for your need to observe a tradition that belongs to neither the Westerlands nor to Dorne."

The bedding had gone as it usually did in the lands north of Dorne: savage, rude, and humiliating. When the king announced it was time, Oberyn smiled despite the ugly joy shown by the boy king and kissed Sansa's hand before the guests began grabbing at their clothes. Both of them were soon stripped of clothing and locked into his chamber by their laughing guests.

His bannermen had been able to keep most of the men from pawing at her too much, but they could do nothing for the lewd suggestions that reached her ears. Sansa was shaking and tears welled in her eyes as she sought to cover her nakedness and he wished deeply for Ellaria's presence. Ellaria would sooth away Sansa's worry and calm her, because the work he'd done during supper had been erased as though he'd never even tried.

First Oberyn took a sheet from the bed, approaching her slowly with a hand extended out in front of him. If he hadn't thought so before, he would know now that she hadn't been treated well at all. Her fingers carefully did not brush his as she took the sheet from him, and somehow she avoided making it feel like a slight. As Sansa clutched the sheet to her chest, though, she turned away from the sight of him and he wondered if she'd been forced before by a man in some way. He would not be surprised if she'd concealed such an attack, as her value to the Crown for so long had been her purity. Oberyn saw as she turned, however, what she'd been fearful of revealing. He couldn't help but hiss in a breath from his shock.

Scars--whip scars, from more than a single lashing, on her back. He did not touch them to know their truth, merely allowed her to tug the sheet about her shoulders and face him. Her blue eyes, steady and cold when he tipped her chin up, held his gaze easily. Had the king invited himself into their bedchamber--a right Oberyn wondered if the cruel little bastard even knew of--he could have given no thought to her age even if he'd wanted to. But these scars...this little wife of his had seen far more life in her years than she gave appearance of.

Whoever dared lay a hand on her would owe him their head, Oberyn decided as he stepped away from her, seeing to his own nakedness now.

As he called for servants to bring her an outfit for tomorrow as well as hot losennta--a bitter Dornish wine spiced with peppers and sweetened with Naathi honey--Oberyn vowed she would never be forced or abused again. In the meantime, the losennta would sooth her over-wrought nerves. The Dornish drink had been taught to the kitchens in preparation for his party's arrival and they were decent at it. Nearly every Dornishman in the Keep had been murdered when the Lannisters sacked the city, and as such most of the rich foods of his home had disappeared from King's Landing. Sansa would be eating and drinking Dornish and Rhoynish foods soon enough on long evenings spent in his suite of rooms in Sunspear, the wine warming her cheeks as her skin tanned from porcelain to sandstone.

He settled into his seat, asking her what she knew of him, encouraging her to speak of herself as well. Sansa was quiet, but no longer did she freeze when he moved, and obediently sipped the drinks he poured for her. Oberyn did not press her for anything else, not even her smiles. She was a princess twice over, and owed him nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh so many subscribers and bookmarks! Thank you all so much for your kind support with kudos and comments, too! Please let me know what you think of this chapter! I've had it written probably the longest, so I'm really interested in what you think. 
> 
> Again, thank you!


	6. Sansa

The instant her hand connected with warm flesh instead of her pillow, Sansa froze in the midst of her half-waking nightmare. She lay wrapped too tightly in sheets, the linen sticky on her sweaty skin, and in her thrashing she had hit her new husband. She squeezed her eyes shut, expecting the kind of rage she'd come to know from men here in King's Landing. She'd cracked him across the mouth, and he'd grabbed her hand firmly to keep her from doing it again.

"I am sorry my lord," she started, not trying to pull her hand from his and wishing deeply that she was clothed. He would hurt her--as so many of her nightmares told her a husband would. As goodsister to the queen, Sansa had not escaped Cersei during her marriage to Tyrion. The queen had told her a great deal of what she should expect from a husband, and what would befall her should she fail to give her husband an heir in a timely manner. _An old tradition, little dove, but being from the North you understand the need for such traditions to be kept alive._ Sansa had been unable to meet any Lannister man's gaze for days afterwards. She lacked the skills of Margaery and Cersei, the certain finesse that kept men's hands away and their words sweet, and her nightmare had shattered already the heady dream of yesterday's Dornish kindness.

"You cringe from a blow that will never fall, a hand that will never rise against you," Oberyn finally said, making no move to close the distance between them and loosening his hands from around hers. Sansa wished she could believe him now that the wine from the night before was clear of her mind, and might have once. Instead she focused on wrapping the sheet close to her shoulders once more and sitting up gingerly. Her head was pounding and her entire body ached. It must have shown.

"I forget that losennta is stronger than many are used to, I apologize my lady." Instead of the serious and intimate tone from before, his words now bordered on playful as she stood from the bed. She needed the privy, but knew not where it was in Oberyn's rooms. Swallowing her pride and with as much dignity she could muster through her winesickness and nakedness, Sansa turned to face her new husband and asked. He answered her easily without any of the exasperation Tyrion displayed at her courtesies.

Oberyn was arranging the bed when she returned, and she observed him silently. Oberyn Martell clad in only a loose nightshirt was certainly something she did not find unappealing. His hair bore signs of a recent cut, and he inclined his head at times in a way that hinted he'd had long hair until very recently. Sansa tried to imagine him with longer locks. Would his hair be downy like Ser Loras' or would it stand out wild from his head like Ellaria Sand's? The gray at his temples would turn to streaks of silver like the ones her father had begun showing shortly before his death, but the rest of his hair remained glossy black.

"Breathe as normally as possible when spying, my love," he said, not for an instant changing his focus from the sheets, "else you give the room a certain void instead of simply blending in." A flash of red, dusky as only dried blood could be, caught her eye as he finally turned around. The cloth in his arms had been stained with blood, and Sansa felt sick. Yet another of the Queen's little wisdoms had been that King Robert had gotten her drunk at times only to--Oberyn saw her sway on her feet and dropped the sheet in his haste to catch her elbows.

"I swore I would not, and I did not," he said urgently, "they will not believe us if we do not have proof, Sansa. They will send spies in here after we leave to breakfast with the king, and they must find _proof_." His eyes, wide and dark, stayed on hers as she hiccuped through her subsiding horror, his grip on her elbows loosening as her balance came back. There was compassion in his gaze, but Sansa also saw a thread of steel that she latched onto. Steel she could understand these days, hard and cold as it was it reminded her of her warm parents, her siblings of which she was one of the last. Looking into Oberyn Martell's eyes, Sansa knew she had a man who would go to incredible lengths for those he cared for. Who knew that she would find the North in a man from so far south?

 

* * *

 

Sansa admired her new husband's figure and hated herself for her vanity--beautiful people could have blackened hearts. Tyrion had defended her from the court at great physical risk to himself, he had allowed her the choice of sharing the marriage bed, he was open about the safeties and dangers their lives as Lannisters posed them, and he had somehow arranged this rescue by the Martells. He had been horrific to look at, and she'd lived in terror the first few weeks of their sham-marriage that he would force himself on her somehow despite his reassurances. It was through him that she'd begun to trust once again--cautiously still, but there was something in him that could be relied upon. A certain goodness, a certain bone-deep respect for good people.

Prince Oberyn she knew little of save from stories. A fierce warrior, a philosopher and teacher to those around him, a father of eight bastard children, and now her husband. Sansa was well used to power plays involving marriage by now, so she understood on the surface that Lord Tywin was giving her and her claim up to Dorne to avoid a furtherance of the civil war when her children came of age. If she remained married to Tyrion, or even wed to a Tyrell or Arryn or Tully, when her children came of age they would have close claims to a large swath of Westeros--and her loyalty was in no way certain over the span of decades even if she appeared tame now. If she was wed to anyone but Dorne she would have the power to teach her children they were great lords of many people--and the children would grow up to claim what was theirs like a brood of Blackfyre bastards but of painfully _legitimate_ birth.

A marriage to Dorne, to Prince Oberyn, was an unexpected boon for Lord Tywin. The distance would enable him to force her to give her claim to another entirely or allow them to rule the North as her permanent regent. Furthermore, her children would be far separated from those who might put Eddard Stark's grandchild up as Lord of Winterfell. The danger she posed would be neutralized. Still, she thought as she cautiously accepted food from her new husband during breakfast, she would hope that Prince Oberyn did not mean it when he said he would never allow his children to grow up in the cold. After all of her suffering, and this shock of being taken from the two people in Westeros she'd felt the least bit of trust towards, Sansa felt that her chlidren deserved the North at least as a memorial to the pain of the Starks.

 _Hopefully they will not be too beautiful to say no to as Joff was,_ she told herself as she walked next to Prince Oberyn later that morning towards the solar she would share with his lover. Ellaria was there, and Sansa hoped the peace made yesterday would last. But even if it didn't, there were far worse fates, Sansa knew, and so smiled as warmly as she knew how to Prince Oberyn's paramour. That smile fell from her mouth and she twitched a step backwards when Ellaria stalked up to Oberyn, her face contorted in fury, and slapped him with the back of her hand. Twice. To his credit he took the blows and made no move to answer them. He was a different man entirely from those in the king's court.

"You--You, Oberyn--you raped this girl," Ellaria hissed, "they sent the bedding sheet here just before you came--blood and cum worked in, and now here is the girl with red-rimmed eyes and bitten lips. This is not what we spoke of, you were not what I promised her, you--"

Then with hands strong and sure, Prince Oberyn captured Ellaria's fists and hushed her fury. Then he beckoned Sansa closer and pulled her close to both himself and Ellaria, "My princess, please tell my love what transpired when I took you for my own." There was a half smile that Sansa hoped meant she was free to speak the truth. She had no ready lie to present to Ellaria, though, so it mattered little what Prince Oberyn wanted.

"We drank losennta, and then lay down to sleep. Pr--Prince Oberyn held me," Sansa wanted to hide somewhere or disappear into the woodwork at the dire look Ellaria was directing at Oberyn now, "and he kissed me, telling me all would be well until I slept. I was as surprised as you to see the bedding sheet this morning before breakfast." One of Ellaria's finely shaped eyebrows curved up in disbelief, and then Prince Oberyn was rushing to untie his belt and expose his flank. When his tunic parted he gestured to a wound cut into his flesh.

"My loves," he said softly, "I am as I have always been. My enemies will die screaming, but my lovers," he wrapped an arm around both Ellaria and Sansa, tugging them close to his sides, "my lovers will never know pain from my hand." Sansa stared at the small injury, knowing that with a bedding sheet produced she was completely bound to Oberyn Martell but she reveled in the fact that he had bled for her freedom. Her joy soon took a turn to relieved tears.

Ellaria was surprised when Sansa sank into silent weeping, but she helped Oberyn gently lead Sansa to the den of pillows in the solar. They held her until well after the tears had stopped, leaving Sansa wondering where they'd come from for she'd thought there were no more tears in her to cry out. Both Oberyn  and Ellaria's touches felt like those of lovers, despite how much older they were. Sansa was glad of it as she rested her cheek on Oberyn's shoulder, glad that they did not touch her as parents might touch her--Lady Catelyn and Lord Eddard needed no replacements.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope this adequately addresses what Tyrion saw at the day-after-breakfast versus what Tyrion thinks happened. We shall hear more from him and others soon, I am just trying to get Sansa safely folded up behind a wall of Dornish spears.


	7. Sansa

Sansa could see the gates being drawn between herself and the court. She'd seen them drawn between herself and her family after Father's arrest, seen them drawn nearly closed when Lady Olenna had tried to woo her to Highgarden and so she knew what it looked like. Though she allowed Oberyn to hold and kiss her when he wished, in their rooms alone or when under the court's eyes, she did not let herself be too taken in to notice her surroundings.

They dressed her in shimmering silks borrowed between their wardrobes at first. One of her husband's tunics nearly always surrounded her shoulders for she shied from the bare-armed gowns Ellaria favored. Ellaria and her handmaidens gently taught her to style her hair like the great ladies of Sunspear, loaning her jewels and trinkets, while Oberyn took her to Lady Olenna's gardens as often as he could steal the time. He told stories all afternoon with her head in his lap as the Tyrell women giggled and sewed. Lady Olenna bestowed small smiles at them even as Oberyn rested an easy hand on Sansa's middle one afternoon. The warmth of his hand seeped through her clothing and lulled her to a near doze.

She'd not realized how exhausting her armor had been to maintain. Here with Lady Olenna she'd first found ears she could trust, and Prince Oberyn refused to hear a single word spoken against Sansa. She could lay here, warm and relaxed, forever.

"She was ill-treated before we arrived," Lady Olenna murmured, either thinking Sansa to be asleep or not caring if she overheard or perhaps both, "they had to behave as though she'd been the king's cherished lady all this time but I've eyes in my head the same as you. We can only be thankful that little Lord Tyrion balked at sharing her bed."

"I think I have seen enough to know she will carry the weight of her time here with more elegance and grace than many of the people I've known in my life." A flush rose up her cheeks at his words and she turned her head away from the group. Oberyn set aside his goblet and smoothed his palm on the top of her head. Looking up at him through her eyelashes she saw a pensive look on his face. She swallowed and closed her eyes. These people might relax her for now, but they all would have their own agendas of which she was only part.

When they returned to the solar an entire entourage of Oberyn's bannermen greeted them. In each man's arms a bolt of cloth, some fabrics shimmering in the light and others in solid colors. Sansa blushed as Oberyn helped her remove his borrowed tunic shirt. The peach gown she wore beneath was one of the last ones that neither she nor Ellaria had been seen in before--and though Ellaria and Oberyn professed little care for what the court thought, they relented when she asked.

"Would you favor a Dornish merchant, my love, to help with your outfit for the king's wedding?" She nodded at Oberyn's words, sliding behind her defenses of courtesy and manners. She knew there would be few spies within her husband's household, but she preferred to keep her own counsel and her opinions private.

"Of course. Do you favor any particular colors, husband?" She let his arm go and reached for Ellaria's hand. Her survival depended on these two and she would show her solidarity to them. These men were mostly as dark as Oberyn and Ellaria, though a few were from the north of Dorne and had the olive complexion that the knights and ladies of Highgarden shared.

"I think on such an occasion I would have my wife dress as the princess she is," Oberyn said, hopping up on the table near the window. He picked at his belt and let his tunic fall open, rolling his head to loosen the muscles of his neck. Sansa straightened her posture and faced the row of men and the cloth the held. She had made her dresses once upon a time and her fingers itched for the occupation again. She let Ellaria put a hand at the small of her back and gravitated towards the orange and red fabrics.

"Not only of Dorne, my princess. I would see you both in the gray of the Starks as well," Oberyn called, and Sansa bit her tongue. She had spent so long foregoing her colors, her father's banners, that she'd learned not to miss them. Looking over her shoulder she found him staring at her intently, a challenge lurking in the air between them. For the first time since hitting him on their first morning together, fear curled into her heart. He was testing her--but testing _what_ , that she did not know.

"Of course, if that is your wish, Prince Oberyn."

"Oberyn--" Ellaria's objection trailed off when he held up a hand against her words.

"It is my wish that the pigs who brought you so much suffering see you standing tall. With how things have gone in the last year, your children will be the rightful inheritors of Winterfell and Riverrun. Your brother's rebellion named you Princess of the North, and his death has named you Queen. These Lannisters and Baratheons would do well to remember this. Ellaria will join you, for I do not ask you to face them alone." He stood, pouring her a goblet of water, and pressed it into her hand as he walked past her to inspect the gray silk a few feet from where she stood. Sansa tried not to think on the implication of his words--she would have powerful children, children that would be used against Westeros. The queen would say it was all part of the game. As though reading her mind, Oberyn continued.

"Your aims are mine, my love, and I would see you bold enough to speak them. I think we would all see you bold, do you not agree?" Warm smiles greeted her eyes all around. Sansa thought about her dead family, their bravery stemming from a simple desire to save her and her sister--even though Arya was also likely dead. They had been bold, and so she would be too. If she lost her head, so be it--but here were a man and woman willing to lose their heads alongside her.

They had barred her handmaiden Shae from her, replacing the volatile Lorathi woman with a girl named Tevira Gryal from Skyreach, and Sansa missed the abrasive commentary she'd grown used to over the last year. Shae had been her most trusted companion, and she'd begged Oberyn to send the woman to the Tyrells rather than away. Lady Olenna had been gracious of the request, she'd been informed, but Sansa had not seen Shae since the day after her marriage to Oberyn.

"If we have this cut today, may I help with the design?" Ellaria smiled almost as widely as Oberyn did in response. As the Maiden rose from the Crone's ashes, so too now did Sansa Martell rise from the ashes of Sansa Lannister.


	8. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little bit longer than the ones before, there's not really a great place to cut this chapter into two chapters. So here you go! A nice long chapter to reward all my faithful readers :D

In addition to losing Shae, she could no longer speak with Tyrion. They had had interesting conversations, and very occasionally she'd felt comfortable enough to let her guard down just a hair around him, but no matter how interesting he was there was now a facade to maintain. As her husband he had been disgusted by her and sought the company of whores, and as his wife she had been driven to desperation for want of a child. Podrick and Bronn were each removed as well for she was no longer their Lady Lannister.

Instead she had a circle of visitors formed primarily of Dornish ladies who had accompanied the Martell bannermen to King's Landing. Their conversations were light and airy, boisterous when their husbands joined them. She liked losennta more than she did other wines and served it more often than not, though she still preferred honeyed milk or even water. On the days where Oberyn was not busy speaking with the King's Council he joined them, and the small gatherings turned into small celebrations.

"Many of us thought that Ellaria would never convince Prince Oberyn to marry," a woman from House Vaith said about four days after the wedding, drunk and giggling as she spoke to Sansa, "but here he stands before us, married in the Great Sept itself. He will prove a quick cure to your childlessness, Princess, and Ellaria will help you if you let her."

Sansa had been mortified, this being the first time anyone outside of the King's Council had mentioned her reason for marrying Oberyn. How great her shame must be if so many knew of it! But then Ellaria had laughed at the lady's words and said that that was probably Sansa's only aim in seeking the Prince's comforts, his renown and riches factored little to Eddard Stark's practical daughter. A whoop of praise left her guests' mouths as Oberyn reeled her in for a kiss after Ellaria finished speaking.

Such days were a portent of what was to come: Oberyn and Ellaria carefully keeping Sansa away from all contact with the denizens of the court and filling her days with Dornish drink and laughter. Since her wedding she met probably every Dornishman in the city at least once--and entertained those of Oberyn's own retinue nearly every day. They taught her Rhoynish words as they would sit with herself and Ellaria, complain at the injustices the King's cooks did to Dornish foods, and at regular turns assure Sansa that her new husband would prove a quick cure to her childlessness.

Their words that Oberyn had a certain ease with the task were proven true as Ellaria announced, thankfully only to Sansa, she carried Oberyn Martell's ninth child. There was a little worry around her mouth as she spoke, as though Sansa might finally snap out of some daze and realize that her husband still shared a bed with his paramour. Sansa could only smile though, that she had finally found herself with truthful people. The kind of people her parents would have wanted her to end up with after the disaster of Joffrey.

"What will you name her?" It was not done to speak of Oberyn's children as potentially male. If he'd been destined for a male child he would have fathered one by now. Ellaria pursed her mouth, rubbing one hand on her still flat abdomen.

"Oberyn favors Tamcen."

"And what are your thoughts?" She tried her very best not to let Oberyn's opinion and actions be the only things that brought her closer to Ellaria. The woman was very much her own, and Sansa dearly hoped to build a mutual loyalty between them. Ellaria Sand had been allowed to choose so much in her life, had grown up choosing. Sansa, deprived of choice for so long, envied her.

"I thought of perhaps Sansa. You shall be her second mother and no matter what troubles face her she will have your example to guide her." Sansa's throat was dry from emotion by the time Ellaria's words sunk in, and her cheeks were incredibly hot. For the last two years she had lived in fear, sticking to shadows and the sidelines whenever possible. She knew many in Westeros who sympathized with her brother's failed rebellion had looked on her wretched situation with pity.

"I would be honored, Ellaria, but I--" Ellaria put a warm hand on Sansa's, a wide and happy smile stretching her lips.

"Do not worry, my love, you are indeed a woman worth admiring so. Oberyn may call her Tamcen but I shall present her to his brother as Sansa."

 

* * *

 

Her left hand was in the crook of Oberyn's elbow, her right hand clutching Ellaria Sand's as they walked to their seats at Joffrey's wedding a week later. Her own second wedding was scandalous enough that she did not mind when her new husband informed her that he would not be giving up his paramour even for appearances such as this. Ellaria had clearly wanted to say something but had not when Sansa subtly shook her head at the other woman. Oberyn had grinned like a madman when she assented to his wish.

Sansa was glad that her marriage meant her seat at the wedding was far from where the king and newlywed queen were installed. Oberyn's bannermen distracted her with small quips about the food as Joffrey's entertainments dragged on, and when the king began to choke--on pie or blood or pure hatred she did not care which--it was Oberyn who drew her into his lap, putting her head in the crook of his neck. She'd only seen it for a moment but there was a pleased squint to her husband's eyes as he stared at the scene before them.

She heard the Queen--former Queen Regent--order Tyrion seized by the Kingsguard, interspersed with gutteral screams over Joffrey's dead body. Ellaria held Sansa's hand tightly through it all before all of the guests were ordered back to their rooms. Oberyn picked Sansa up and carried her through the fray. She chose to ignore the lack of concern in his voice as he ordered the way clear for the Martell bannermen who surrounded them, shutting her eyes lightly and letting herself lay loose in his arms as though she'd fainted.

The horrid Joffrey lay dead behind them, and Sansa felt no grief at his equally horrible corpse. Queen Cersei would not be forced to watch Joffrey's body rot day by day as Sansa had had to watch the faces of Father and Septa Mordane decay and fall from their skulls. It was Joffrey's death that she had desired most for the longest, and now he was dead. By Tyrion Lannister's hand? Unlikely. By Oberyn Martell's after he gazed upon the scars criss-crossing her back? After he listened to her nightmares for nearly a month? There were other suspects, of this she was sure, but if her husband told her he'd poisoned the king she would not doubt him. The best men she'd known in King's Landing had all murdered--or ordered murders--of bad people, and Oberyn was a good man.

Though their plans had been to travel to Dorne soon after the wedding, Oberyn bid them stay. Guilty souls fled soonest, he said over losennta later that evening, and he would not bring more danger on their heads. She'd believed him until he'd agreed to sit as a judge for Tyrion's trial.

When news reached them that Tyrion's trial had come to a shocking conclusion where the Lannister dwarf had demanded a trial by combat, Sansa made an effort to accompany her husband on a trip to the markets. She had to be seen as happy and unaffected, and Oberyn easily took her hand when she asked him to. Neither she nor Ellaria had attended the trial--she'd asked if Ellaria could sit with her and been given a stern 'no' to which she'd replied with a sweet decline to the invitation.

The next day she breakfasted with Margaery to help support the illusion that she was well-free of Tyrion Lannister. Her closeness to the Highgarden faction was permitted though not openly encouraged. The ladies of the Reach were never permitted in Sansa's solar, for instance, but she occasionally whiled away an afternoon with Lady Olenna and her companions in the gardens. The only requirement her husband made of her was that she choose from among his bannermen a bodyguard who might accompany her everywhere.

It was as she bid goodbye to her guard, a man who had grown up in awe of the Red Viper's shadow, when she heard both Oberyn and Ellaria's voices raised in argument in their rooms. She steeled herself before opening the door to enter--the peace between husband, wife, and lover had somehow broken and she knew not how. Perhaps her freedom was about to come to an end and she would be left here as Dorne's ambassador, far more alone and in danger than she'd ever been since her father's head was taken.

"Look at her, Oberyn," Ellaria shouted the instant her eyes lit on Sansa's form, her tone making Sansa freeze, " _look. at. her._ She will be given to Tywin Lannister himself if you lose--your children will die to avenge you and bring her back to Sunspear, and your newest will grow up without a father. _Why_ did you agree to save a man marked for death?"

Oberyn stood well apart from Ellaria, a stubborn set to his jaw and Sansa knew she would not win him to Ellaria's side of the argument. It was a Northron pig-headedness that had taken him, reminding her so fiercely of Robb and Jon that she ached. 

"Tell her, Oberyn, tell her the fate you've condemned her to for I shall not be the bearer."

"My loves," Oberyn said, ignoring Ellaria's scoff as she turned to flop on her chaise, "I have volunteered to fight Gregor Clegane in the trial by combat for Tyrion Lannister."

Sansa felt her knees try to go out from under her and quickly sat down to conceal her weakness. She'd thought that Ellaria was merely exaggerating as she often did. Oberyn crossed to her, kneeling in front of her and taking her hands in his own. Sansa tried to breathe normally but it was difficult past her sudden fear--all Ellaria had said was true.

"I will not fail, Sansa, I will kill him and I will save your brave dwarf," he said urgently, "the one who took your father's life lies dead, my love, but the one who took my sister and her children is not. Please do not question my decision or resolve--give me this one thing before we leave this cesspit." Sansa stared at their clasped hands, his dark against hers. She was proud her voice did not waver, then, as she replied.

"But if you do fail?" His eyes shuttered and cooled at this but he gripped her hands tighter.

"Then you shall be on the first ship to Dorne, with Ellaria." Sansa shook her head, knowing already that if Oberyn were dead such a feat would not be possible. Lady Olenna already had a cool but civil relationship with Dorne and her granddaughter was Queen Widow--she had no real need for Sansa now. She was too valuable a piece for use against Dorne now for Lord Tywin. He would never let her go if he had the option.

"You are a master of poisons. Everyone knows it, and I would have you give me my freedom that way. My family is dead already, but I will not be the death of yours in some effort to save me from this place should you die. If you fight Clegane, fight knowing that they will not do to me what was done to Elia if he kills you. Know that Ellaria will be sent home, and that they will not hurt me ever again. Please." Her husband's face was hard by the time she finished. He and Ellaria had tried to keep the beasts from her door, but that did not mean that she remained ignorant of them.

"My love," his voice was soft and serious as he brought her fingers up to gently kiss, "I will not be the death of you. I will not fail." Sansa frowned but did not take her hands from him. He was too confident, and she worried that in two days time she would be back in the grasp of the Lannisters without even Ellaria at her side.


	9. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, there is going to be a bit of severe head-trauma for someone in this chapter. I'm not telling you who.

Despite his words to the contrary, Oberyn gave her a vial of amber liquid the morning of the trial. His fingers were cool on hers as he passed it to her. Sansa felt a thrill go up her spine--this was the same feeling she'd had when confronted by Sandor Clegane during the Blackwater, the same feeling she'd had when Joffrey stood on the ledge making her look at her father's head. A brilliant feeling that she had her life in her own hands. She could do whatever she pleased in this moment and no one would stop her.

"It is called Grandmother's Slippers, and will be painless," he said softly.

"How do I use it?" She didn't know much of poisons, but she knew that it was important how they were administered. Oberyn sighed, cupping her cheek and sliding his palm to her shoulder as he met her eyes directly.

"You may take it alone, it tastes like oranges, or mix it into wine or water, but not milk or food. You will feel feverish and short of breath a few minutes after taking it, and then faint away within the hour. Nothing will revive you before it has taken its course, I promise you." His dark eyes were incredibly sad as he watched her tuck it into her smallclothes as they stood in their solar. Sansa was sad as well, but hid it behind a shy smile and fussed with his leather tunic. There was enough blood from her husband's duels to flood the Great Sept and little enough of his own. That his opponent had the same record roiled worry in her stomach as Oberyn kissed Ellaria and then herself before presenting himself to the assembled crowd, the royal family, and Lord Tywin.

Sansa reached for Ellaria's hand as Clegane also presented himself. If she'd thought the Hound was a massive and terrifying man, she marked him average compared to his brother. She'd not seen the elder Clegane for more than a year and her recollection of him had been dim. The vial of poison had long ago warmed to her skin as it settled between her breasts, and she pressed her free hand to it to remind herself that her husband cared enough for her that he gave her this way out. She prayed to even the Old Gods that he not force her to use it.

After the hope and kindness she'd been shown, after missing her chance of escape with Ser Dontos, there was no more she would take. The Lannisters would not have her if Oberyn failed. She would stand as tall as her Lady Mother was reported to have stood before her death, as proud and headstrong as Arya had always been, and they would not have her. Sansa had never been strong enough before, but Oberyn and Ellaria had given her strength. It was strength that lay at her fingertips, not scattered about her like so much grain to be gathered.

The men were given the permission to begin their match, the understanding that the fight would be to the death loudly announced. She and Ellaria had begged, late into the night and early this morning, that Oberyn just finish the man. Finish his vile life and defile his corpse however Oberyn saw fit, but to do it quickly. By the time they left for the match he was nearly petulant in his insistence that he would succeed.

Sansa had not seen much sparring since Joffrey's last nameday but she remembered the elegant steps and flashing swords. It was nearly a dance, she recalled, as Gregor Clegane delivered heavy swings and swipes that she remembered of knights. Oberyn, on the other hand, moved like a pennant in a breeze: lazy and then very suddenly striking out. He well deserved the title of Red Viper, in his red leathers and lightning fast movements.

She had expected him to yell, curse and scream hotly at his sister's murderer, her rapist. But instead Oberyn was focused only on the fight, deadly silent save for the few cries he made as he struck out with his spear and landed cutting blows against the weak points in Clegane's armor. The crowd was mostly silent though a few gasps rose up whenever Clegane managed to even get near Oberyn. It appeared to be a fight of attrition until Oberyn managed to get behind Clegane and with a mighty leap into the air plunged his spear down Gregor Clegane's spine between his helmet and breastplate, breaking the spear two feet from the spearhead.

The scream Ser Gregor let out was unsettling but what was worse were the unnatural convulsions his body descended into even as Oberyn called for another spear. A revolting gurgling wheeze escaped the fallen body, and Ellaria turned her head away. Sansa did not--Robb would never avenge her family, so she dutifully watched her husband avenge his. A new weapon in hand, Oberyn stabbed the small of his opponent's back and then twitched the greatsword away from Clegane's reach. Dropping his spear he picked the sword up and swung it experimentally a few times.

"Gregor Clegane, for the murder of my sister's children, for her rape and murder, you should have been quartered alive long ago," Oberyn announced, his control seemingly held on by bitterness alone as he advanced on the now-still form of his adversary, "but today my sister will have to settle for your head!" And with a mighty swing he decapitated the man who had done so much evil in his life. The terrible gurgling sound that had replaced the scream was cut short as the head rolled away from the body, only Oberyn's heavy breathing could be heard. The crowd, gathered to see the strange Prince of Dorne die trying to save the Imp, sat in shocked silence for several moments before bewildered murmurs rose up as Oberyn picked up the head and held it aloft.

"I shall keep this, my Lord Tywin, for it pays against a debt long owed House Martell. In the meantime, I believe you must consider the Gods to be in favor of Lord Tyrion's innocence."

With this he turned and stalked back to where she and Ellaria stood, dropping Clegane's head with a meaty thud on their table. A quick kiss was given to Ellaria and then he swept Sansa up in a gory embrace, smearing bloody handprints on her buttocks and sides as he clutched her tightly to himself.

"I told you I would not fail," he whispered into her ear before kissing her throat, "and now you must return my gift. It wouldn't do for you of all people to be found with it." Sansa shook her head, whispering that she would give it back to him in the privacy of their rooms. Not when his fingers would leave bloody stains on her bosom if he fished it out of her bodice. Behind them she heard Lord Tywin pronouncing Tyrion's innocence, but knew she could not turn her focus from either Oberyn or Ellaria.

They'd discussed it--Tyrion felt nothing for her, officially, and she'd sought comfort from another man who was now her husband. There was no earthly reason why she should express any relief at his pardoning save that her husband had survived the match. Besides, with Queen Cersei and Lord Tywin still on the loose Sansa could not summon high hopes for Tyrion's continued safety.

They left the arena together--she held Ellaria's hand and Oberyn wrapped one arm around her waist while his free hand clutched at his prize by the jaw. She walked as regally as possible in her bloodied dress, reminding all who saw her that both Winterfell and Sunspear had been wronged by Houses Lannister and Baratheon. That they'd sewn her brother's wolf to his body, thrown her mother's corpse into the river, and put her father's head on a spike--and that they had celebrated the rape and murder of a sovereign princess of the realm, and that that princess' children had been murdered despite being too young to even know their House. All of these gawking people deserved to know the price of such actions.

Sansa had the feeling that it would be Dorne who would finally make them pay it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope this answered some of the worries and questions from last chapter? Let me know what you think!


	10. Tyrion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a palate cleanser, here, with Tyrion. Next chapter we will go back to Sansa and everyone else!

Tyrion stared at the scene Sansa and Oberyn made. Very distantly he could hear his father declaring his innocence, that the gods had found favor on his small form against the claim of regicide. The man was covered in the spray of blood from Clegane's body, his hands nearly dripping from it, and it clashed terribly with the saffron dress they'd put Sansa in. The Dornish Prince was of an attractive height against always-tall Sansa Stark, and when he broke apart from her he had left blood across her bodice. Her sides and back were a similar mess.

A more feral claim on a woman Tyrion had trouble imagining--even the paramour, Ellaria, had cheeks smeared in blood. Flicking a glance up to his father he bit down on a smirk. Tywin Lannister too had his eyes on the Prince and Princess of Dorne, looking like he'd chewed on lemon rinds, for Prince Oberyn had breathed life into the rebellion that had only so recently died with Robb Stark. An old debt--and Lannisters always paid their debts.

His sister Cersei on the other hand looked as though she wanted to call for the guards, have them skewer him on their pikes as Prince Oberyn had skewered Clegane. The crowd was dispersing, but she and those in the royal box remained seated. They had tried to kill him twice, he knew, and had failed both times. He would try to ensure he was not present in King's Landing for the third attempt.

Gregor Clegane's head seeped blood and soaked the tablecloth before the victorious Dornish prince reclaimed it, and ugly little splashes dripped from the fine linen as Prince Oberyn led his retinue out of the arena. His life had been nothing compared to Clegane's and he knew that Prince Oberyn would have happily died if it had meant also killing the man he dubbed his sister's murderer. His plight had been capitalized on, easily and unquestioningly.

The move of wedding Sansa Stark to the Martells meant that if she were widowed suddenly, Tywin Lannister would have a choke-hold on Dorne without ever mustering a man. There was no way that the Martells would want a repeat of what happened to Elia on their hands and could be counted on behaving for a time--and a time was all that Tywin would need.

"Lord Lannister will see me after he's been given a change of clothes," his father announced before nodding to Cersei and standing to leave. Cersei swallowed what was probably the same poison her son had choked on and dismissed those who remained. She would be looking for her next opportunity to kill him and regain a bit of favor with their father and he fully planned on not being in King's Landing for that very event.

Only Jaime looked the least bit pleased that he had managed to survive, yet again, by the skin of his teeth. A bit pale, his brother was, but he at least didn't look like he'd been stabbed in the gut like so many others in attendance to this bout.

He dearly missed Shae and wondered where she had gotten mixed up to since he'd last seen her. Perhaps working for the Tyrells--she did have a certain wile about her that lent itself to surviving the upheavals life had thrown her. She was a survivor, the type he wanted to think he might one day embody.

"Lord Lannister, the Hand requested a meeting. May we escort you to your rooms?" The Kingsguard who approached him kept a bit of distance--perhaps his display at the trial had been a bit more effective than his able control of Joffrey while he was acting Hand. Never let it be said that Tywin Lannister's school of political thought was an ineffective one, but kingslaying had a certain trick with people.

"Oh, I still have rooms? I would have thought a suspected Kingslayer _and_ kinslayer would have had his things burned, the leather boiled for the dogs to gnaw on better. But perhaps being a pardoned Lannister Kingslayer does have it's perks. Lead the way my good man."

The knight scowled fiercely at being treated like a common servant but had no room to talk back to the queen's brother and the Hand's son. He realized with a giggle that he was very nearly a prince here in King's Landing when he wasn't bedridden or imprisoned. If only everyone here didn't want to murder him.

Glancing once at the headless body of Gregor Clegane his laughter died.

Sansa Stark and her Dornish prince had not wanted him dead. Whatever their reasons, they must have both wanted him very much alive. He shook his head and followed the exasperated Kingsguard towards whatever dark place they had no doubt assigned his things since his arrest. He would survive, he knew, and he was glad that he'd gotten Sansa out--though he did wonder, thinking on her bloodstained dress and the fierce kiss she accepted from Prince Obeyn, if perhaps Sansa had gotten herself out of this place thrice-damned as it as.

Lady--Queen?--Margaery awaited him just out of the arena, her silks in Baratheon griefcolor. She gracefully knelt, her face a mask of tender emotion.

"Lord Tyrion of House Lannister, I thank the Gods that you are not my husband's murderer. I pray that you might help the Lord Hand find the one responsible for the death of my beloved. Please use our shared anger at King Joffrey's death to put aside words spoken in a haze of grief." She offered both of her hands in a supplicating gesture often depicted on statues of the Mother. Tyrion nearly brushed her aside, the games of the court no longer quite so intriguing now that he'd nearly died at their hands. Prudence bid him cautious, though, and he responded to her little charade. It was an official mending gesture, and he knew just the ticket to undermine his sister's considerable power.

"My Queen, my family shall search far and wide for our _beloved_ King Joffrey's assailant. Please consider your grief to be ours." He got a happy nod for his trouble and watched the young woman walk quickly away to trail Cersei's retinue. Sansa had been a stalemate match against his sister, which he had long marveled at, but Lady Margaery played on an entirely higher level than either woman. As he walked Tyrion mused that his sister's worries about the Tyrell girl were perhaps in this one instance completely justified.

Podrick was gone from him but a Tyrell bannerman's bastard son greeted him at his door--a boy named Artor Flowers--and ably assisted him with changing out of his now rancid clothing. Tyrion was just considering asking for a trim to his hair of some sort when a familiar knock sounded on his doorjamb. Only Bronn had ever knocked in such a manner and it was with a sheepish smile that his sellsword-turned-knight walked in.

"Ah, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater and future regent of Stokeworth, a pleasure. I am Lord Tyrion Lannister, but please, call me Tyrion," he said, extending a hand out in friendship. Bronn's words in the cell had struck him. He had not treated this man as his friend when he had begun to depend upon him as a friend ought. From now on he would, for Bronn was a man worth his weight in salt, gold, Essosi slaves, and whores' jewels.

"A great pleasure indeed, Lord Tyrion. Quite a fight to walk away from, eh?" Another crazed giggle escaped Tyrion at the turn of phrase.

"Leaves one a bit lightheaded, I find." Bronn snorted, smiling as he looked about for a pair of goblets and any wine that might be had. The room was a bit of a mess, having been searched repeatedly by Cersei's agents since Joffrey's death. A triumphant hum met with the discovery of wine, at least, and they'd known each other long enough to drink from the same tankard.

"You, Tyrell boy, get us some food."

Artor stuttered at Bronn's order and shifted from foot to foot--he'd been told to listen in, likely, and didn't like leaving his post. Tyrion would have to teach him the craft of it better, if he ended up stuck here again. Were all ladies trained to be spymasters as Margaery and Cersei were, he wondered, or just the ladies the family planned on trying to marry to the Crown Prince?

"You heard Ser Bronn, Artor, fetch us a meal out of whatever the cooks will give a Kingslayer and his sell-sword." Tyrion tried to address people by name, it usually left a better impression in their mind of him, and he needed all the help he could get in that area. Bronn took a long drought of the wine and passed it to Tyrion.

"Best not throw that about, your brother might take a jealous turn. He's had the title so long he's probably grown attached." Tyrion laughed in the middle of a gulp and nearly choked himself. Wine dribbled down his chin as he broke into giggling coughs. It must have been the shock and relief that he would live at least another day that had him so out of sorts.

"Jaime? Never, save for the fact that peasants can't have swords he would be happier as a Houseless farmer."

"Or maybe a Dornishman? I heard legends, growing up, that the Dornish rise up and kill their Princes and Princesses if they're touched in the head as the Mad King was. Your esteemed brother might fit very well there."

"Ah, you are forgetting one thing, my friend," Tyrion replied, "the Dornish do not forget, and they will not forget to speak Lannister before they ever make mention of Kingslayer."


	11. Ellaria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't mean to beat up on Sansa in any way, but she's coming out of a very bad situation. Don't worry, she's in good hands now and things will eventually even out for her!

Ellaria avoided helping Oberyn pack his bags for he'd had the head pickled. Her mother's stomach curdled whenever she caught a glance of it on his desk and she'd spent most mornings taking refuge with Sansa. The girl was sewing a nameday outfit for Ellaria's babe--from first seam to last embroidered stitch, she'd said proudly over the delicate peach fabric. Oberyn was often away as he oversaw the preparations for their departure from King's Landing, only returning to their rooms at night, whispering to her how much he wanted his wife to join them.

She too wanted the young woman and for once in her life was at a loss of how to approach her properly. Normally she sauntered up to her lovers and invited them to her bed, leading them by the hand as she'd done to Oberyn so many years ago. This wife of Oberyn's would probably follow her to bed if she demanded it, but Ellaria knew that that would be more damaging than healing. When Sansa wanted either of them she would act on it.

At least this is what she hoped--that the younger woman would gain the confidence to assert herself, to speak her mind. Else they would have saved a lifeless husk instead of a woman.

"Are you free with your lovers, Ellaria? Like Oberyn?" She shot a glance at Sansa, chewing on a bite of bread to keep her stomach settled. The picture of innocence greeted her eyes--a parchment sheet with the household responsibilities written in an elegant hand on the table beside her, embroidery laid out on her lap, and fashionably braided hair piled on her head. Ellaria's look must have been questioning for Sansa quickly continued.

"He...has invited himself to touch my hands, hold me, and kiss me. I feel that that is how he is. I--I wanted," Sansa's eyes fell to her lap and color rose on her pale cheeks, "I wanted to know how you are." Ellaria twitched a smile at this, gingerly standing to go to Sansa's side. Lifting the embroidery from her fingers, she took Sansa's hand and led her back to the chaise to sit.

She reached up to unhook one of Sansa's braids, letting it fall naturally down the young woman's back and slowly unravel there.

"This is how I am, especially with my women. I take you aside, and I give you myself." She watched Sansa's fingers twitch and paused--she would never allow herself to touch this young woman if it wasn't wanted. Whores she had little qualm with but this Sansa had experienced viciousness and betrayals of trust that were too much for most people to bear.

"Oberyn doesn't get jealous?" Ellaria smiled and shook her head.

"He and I understand one another, and we both think you are beautiful. I shall be jealous of him when you take him to bed, for I'll want you for myself then." Sansa colored prettily at this and Ellaria wondered, as she often did, why that blush rose on a lady's cheek. Embarrassment? Desire? A smile warmed her face, though, when Sansa impulsively took her hand.

"I would like to understand...both of you. Not--not now." Ellaria's smile grew and she squeezed Sansa's hand.

"When you are ready, my love, come to us. We will not turn you away," she murmured, and then cocked her head to the side, "may I kiss you?" She made no mention of how much she'd been dying to do so, for Sansa had been tacitly told what to do for years. And kisses were like fruit--if picked early they would not be ripe and there would be no sweetness. "You may," she said, so softly Ellaria wondered if she'd wished the words into existence. She leaned in, slowly so that Sansa could move away if she wanted, and reached up to cradle her face. She pressed her lips softly at first to Sansa's, keeping her mouth closed, and then gently drawing Sansa's lower lip between hers. It was lazy and undemanding and she kept it that way on purpose even when her partner gasped in a little in what Ellaria hoped was pleasure.

They ended up curled closely together on the chaise, Sansa allowing her to kiss and caress as she willed. Oberyn had taught the girl to kiss but as yet had not truly indulged in this with his wife--sharing the same breath, smelling one another's hair and skin. No, he was free with his attention but he did not ask for this certain intimacy from Sansa. He, like Ellaria, preferred it when it was freely given.

It was after sundown when she felt a light blanket thrown over her and she perked her head up to see who had done it. Oberyn put a sly finger to his lips asking her to keep quiet and still. Sansa curled against her body, breathing deeply and easily. Her lips were still swollen from kisses and Ellaria tightened her arms around the slight woman. Her lover sat down on the floor next to them, gently touching a lock of Sansa's hair and looking across her shoulder at Ellaria.

"I got here just after you both dozed off--the night is getting chilly though," he whispered. "This is the longest she's slept without a nightmare since we've had her. Did you have a nice afternoon?" She gave him a brilliant, if sleepy, smile, reaching one hand out for him to take.

"Her kisses are like sunlight, so I had a very pleasant afternoon." He nodded, rubbing her fingertips between his.

"We will leave tomorrow morning ahead of the rest of the party, before dawn. Just the three of us and a few of our best fighters. I do not care to stay for the coronation and wedding of the little butcher's brother, and I do not care to be detained by the Lannisters when I tell them as much. She will not be able to bid her previous companions goodbye. They've sent her dwarf to Braavos asking for a loan, and her handmaiden has gone to Queen Margaery." She lifted her fingers from his and returned them to her hold on Sansa. A mirthful smile lit her love's face as she did so, breaking the heavy mood his words had brought.

"You will both sleep here tonight? While I go to my empty bed?"

"Oh the horror of it all, my prince," she teased, "to have a wife and lover both and no one to warm your bed. Whatever shall your princely brother say?" Oberyn huffed out a laugh and then went to douse the few candles he had lit at the table. Ellaria curled closer to Sansa and tried to go back to sleep. Tomorrow would be the biggest gamble with their escape--just how willing would Tywin Lannister be to see the only living claimant for the North slip from his fingers wrapped in Dornish silks? She felt Oberyn was right to be worried.

Ellaria wasn't the only one yawning when they were woken a few scant hours later. Sansa blushed when Oberyn quipped about being left out of the festivities of the day before, but did not shy from either of them as they bustled her through the hallways of the keep. The royal ostlers and stableboys were still abed and only Martell bannermen surrounded them. Ellaria sat in front of a knight named Prestan from House Toland while Oberyn shared a horse with Sansa. Each mount's hooves had been muffled with felt and the tack all well-oiled so as to draw little attention in these pre-dawn hours. Their cloaks were dark red with orange Martell emblems on the breasts, but no one carried Martell banners and no one announced their presence as they rode quietly out of the city.

It would have been a solemn event even in daylight. The banners had been switched to the Baratheon griefcolor--a yellow bowing stag on a black field--on the Red Keep, and the guards wore yellow armbands to mourn their fallen king. The Queen Regent had been ensconced in her chambers and under constant guard by order of King Tommen and the Lord Hand, for her son's death had made her erratic and paranoid. The host from Highgarden had swelled in number if anything, staying to support the Tyrell girl's claim as Queen.

Ellaria had never had much time for such flowery language as the royal family used--something about King Tommen declaring that his brother's widow would take a wife's place at his own side, along with a statement that Joffrey had wanted nothing more than to become great and close friends with Highgarden. It meant only that the Tyrell girl was being passed from butcher to boy in Ellaria's eyes.

She did not care for the politics here. She did not care for the smell of the air, and she did not care for the Targaryen architecture that was falling apart in the corner of her every glance. Ellaria would not come here again if she could help it, and would never permit Oberyn to send any of his children here--even the legitimate ones born by Sansa.

They had put several leagues behind them, heading south on the Roseroad through the Kingswood, when Oberyn called a brief halt and beckoned Ser Prestan to follow him on his horse. Ellaria did not ask, trying to keep her stomach under control as she had been since they'd arrived at the stables. What she did hear, though, over the muted steps of the horses, was a series of sniffles.

"I am sorry, Prince Oberyn," Sansa's voice was reedy with tears, "please do not stop on my account."

"We shall not resume, Princess, until you let me know what ails you," Oberyn said, a certain worry coloring his tone. Had they miscalculated on the young Stark's situation--did she want to remain in the crowning city of the seven hells? Was she afraid of what she might face in Dorne? Ellaria nodded to Ser Prestan for him to draw closer to Oberyn and Sansa.

"I--" a hacking sob emerged from Sansa as she tried to get her words out, "I never--they--I was going to die there. They--" she could barely breathe past her hysteria it seemed, "they--were going to--would have--" and at this Oberyn decided he'd heard enough. He slid from the horse and helped Sansa down--and Ser Prestan took his cue from this and helped Ellaria down as well, letting her follow Oberyn and Sansa a little farther from the road.

"My love, they will never have you. I will not let them, my people will not let them," Oberyn was murmuring, sitting with his back against a tree with Sansa in his arms. Ellaria settled down next to them, resting a hand on the young woman's waist. Never did either of them tell her she was safe, for the words would fall on deaf ears. They could only wait in the quiet forest for the panic to subside.

Eventually Sansa twined her fingers with Ellaria's and took a few deep breaths while her head rested in the crook of Oberyn's neck. The sky above them had lightened from black to a ruddy purple and the first birds were beginning to sing. The few torches carried by the party crackled and popped as the knights shifted from foot to foot. There was a certain collective disgust for the king's city that Ellaria sensed from them--loyal Dornishmen to a man, the idea that a woman had been driven to such fear by those around her was unthinkable. That it had been done in King's Landing only solidified Dornish distrust of the royal house.

"I am sorry," Sansa said, her voice hoarse from her weeping. Oberyn kissed her hair, the pain visible on his face that there were no words to give this woman. Ellaria spoke for him, then, knowing that he needed her to.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Sansa. Nothing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See that wasn't so bad! And isn't pouty Oberyn adorable?? Let me know what you all think!


	12. Oberyn

They made for Bitterbridge, as he felt more at ease on Tyrell lands than Baratheon. Oberyn would not feel safe until he might speak Dornish Valyrian and hear it in return, but at least Dorne had played an important part in keeping the Tyrell girl on the throne as Queen and for a few years unrestricted passage might be had through these lands. There was something to be said for bringing up the tradition of marrying a fallen brother's wife at the precisely correct moment.

He guided his men easily and made a swift camp late on the first day--the rest of the Martell host would catch up within a day or so. He helped Sansa down from the horse and carried her a a dozen or so paces beyond the small group of riders. The young woman cringed at pulled muscles and Oberyn pushed past some of his always-simmering rage at how the Baratheons and Lannisters had treated her. She'd sat the horse well, moving easily with it all day, but it was obvious her endurance for the task had evaporated at some point. Oberyn could not imagine a prince's lady being unable to ride every day. Even his sister--dear, frail Elia--had taken her horse through its paces until the last weeks of her life.

Sansa was a little unsteady on her feet when he set her down, so he put his arm around her and let her put her weight on him. Ellaria was flirting with Ser Prestan, whispering dirty riddles into his ear as his hands clutched her tight to his body. Looking at them, Oberyn reminded himself that he needed to explain what came next to his young bride--needed to honestly speak of Dorne and his family as he hadn't felt safe to in King's Landing.

The grass wasn't even knee high, so it would be an ideal place to sit down and talk. Those in camp could see him, but if Sansa put her head in his lap she could conceal her reactions from their companions. The gown she wore today was wrinkled and dirty from the road, but the gray of it made her glow as he looked up at her where she stood.

"Sansa, when we arrive in Dorne--" this was the hardest part of loving so easily, he swore it, "--if you would like to take a lover you may. You may live apart from me with him, you may bear his children and I will raise them up as Martells if you wish." Sansa stared down at him, her face nearly unreadable as she mulled over his words. He did not own her, even as she took his name and his colors, and he needed her to know it.

"You and Ellaria were very kind to take me away from that place, Prince Oberyn." Oh--something had gone wrong. She had assumed he was talking in some riddle, a way of telling her things without committing to his words. Oberyn raised one hand and gently pulled her down to sit with him, running his fingers through the cascade of red hair and kissing her fingertips once--twice--thrice.

"You misunderstand me, my love. We would keep you for ourselves without question, but you do not owe us that for taking you from the Lannisters. Things in Dorne are not done the way they are anywhere else, and Ellaria and I will not keep you our prisoner should you wish to leave us," he said, laying her back into the grass with her head cradled on his arm. Her eyes, as blue as the sea, stayed fixed on his as he resisted diving in for a kiss.

"What if I took--what if I did as Ellaria is doing? With Ser Prestan?" Oberyn laughed and stroked a lock of hair from her forehead.

"Then be honest. She and I have long agreed we are happy together, apart, or with others. Ellaria has her dalliances but will tell me if ever she will leave me for one of them. I have had mine and I come back to her. I will tell her if I ever mean to leave her. We have," he trailed off, sweeping the blade of his thumb down her neck and watching the blush chase it, "decided that if you wish it we will include you in the same."

Sansa reached up, cradling the side of his face--one fingernail gently scratching at his sideburn. He leaned into the touch, for he liked being touched by beautiful people and this wife of his was certainly beautiful.

"I do not think I will look elsewhere beyond you and Ellaria. I do not--I cannot trust as easily as you."

He hummed an agreement, basking in the warmth of the sun on his back and her tucked to his side. No, she would not trust easily ever again. That she trusted himself and Ellaria at all spoke volumes. But there was another thing to discuss--

"Do you want me to," he searched for the word, turning his face to her palm and kissing it, "confine myself to you and Ellaria? You do not have to decide now, but please let me know when you do."

"Why?" Had he really never told her of his desires? He must not have, to avoid scaring her whilst still in that cesspit of a capitol. There had been too much for her to take in, and he did not need to give her dreams any more arrows to fire at her. Now, though, on the road to Dorne, he could share this about himself. Better this than have her accidentally find him in some man's arms.

"Because I have had my eye on dear Ser Prestan for over a month now, and Ellaria is teasing me to join her."

"You mean--" he interrupted her before she could even finish her thought.

"--I mean to take him to my bed if he's willing, share him with Ellaria, and then wash him away when I grow tired of him." Sansa was staring at him now as though he'd grown an extra head and all Oberyn could do was chuckle. Through all the horrors and wonders she'd seen she'd not yet met a man such as himself. It was a moment to treasure, seeing her realize that the intimate afternoon she'd had with Ellaria yesterday was not shocking and didn't have to be hidden or forgotten. To see her also realize that he craved that same closeness to a man--well that was nigh on magical.

"Am I expected to..."

"No," he said, kissing the corner of her mouth, "you may take whoever you wish to bed, we will never expect you to join in. We may invite you, Sansa, but that is all."

Sansa smoothed her fingers into his hair, lightly scratching his scalp as she did so. He groaned and followed the motion, bowing his head and bringing her other palm up to give it a lingering kiss. Oberyn wished he could lay here in the twilight, getting to know what made this woman's breath hitch, but he could not. She was looking at him, something on the tip of her tongue obvious from how she wet her lips and took a few deep breaths.

"Oberyn?"

"Yes, my love?"

"I am not ready to have you in my bed," she whispered, a blush flooding her cheeks and creeping down her neck, "but you may have whoever you wish if you let me know. I do not want you unhappy after everything you have done for me." Oberyn nodded, laying flat on his back and tucking Sansa up to his side.

"You will tell me if you change your mind in any way, yes?"

She nodded and lay one hand on his chest, idly playing with his pendant. This was the life, he reflected--a beautiful woman with her head on his shoulder laying in the last grass of Summer, a handsome knight gagging to unlace his breeches, and another beautiful woman full with his child. That and Gregor Clegane's head in a jar.

* * *

 

It was at this first camp that his men, when all of them had arrived, presented Sansa with a collection of daggers--some for her own personal use and others to be given to her children at the age of eight before they were fostered out. She had handled each weapon daintily but hadn't balked when Oberyn showed her a few of the basic stances and informed her he would have her proficient with dagger fighting by the time they reached Sunspear.

It was a little strange, navigating the situations such as that with Sansa. She occasionally stilled under casual, innocent touches of his and would refer to him as 'husband' or 'Prince Oberyn' at times. Other times she would murmur his name with a blush. He liked those times the best, but the small gift-giving was not one of those times. He decided it must have been the situation, for the intimacy of their solar was gone.

"My loves, help me with the losennta. Finally we will have it properly." Sansa and Ellaria gracefully sat beside him as he crouched in front of the fire. From the provisions packs emerged the peppers, honeycombs, spices, and wine and his knights gave elaborate bows to the women as they handed the supplies over. He set Ellaria to the delicate task of properly heating the wine and Sansa to cutting the peppers they'd brought with them. A cheer went up when she used one of her new daggers to do it, for they hadn't brought a good enough knife to properly chop the blood red peppers.

"What are these called, Prince Oberyn?"

"We call them batla, it means sun blood in Rhoynish. Ser Taeron here brought a plant with him that finally flowered when we arrived in King's Landing, he has been tending to it like a wetnurse since then," Oberyn teased, cackling when Taeron made an obscene gesture in return.

"They used dried batla in King's Landing. Fresh is better," he continued with a grin as he heated the honey so he could cook the cinnamon, ginger, and cloves into it. Once Sansa was finished cutting the peppers he had her add them to the honey to cook for a few minutes before he and Ellaria stirred the honey into the wine.

They all drank heavily, even his delicate wife, and he woke up in a pile of limbs that included Sansa, Ellaria, and Prestan. Poor Sansa's dress would be even more wrinkled today after sleeping in it, but then again so would his clothing he saw as he inspected the state of himself and his companions. The redhead was curled against him with Ellaria behind her. Prestan lay on the other side of Ellaria and Oberyn only recognized him because of a distinctive scar running along the back of the hand on Ellaria's shoulder. Through his hangover, Oberyn reevaluated his thoughts of days ago-- _this_ was the life.


	13. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Sansa is a little brave and a little drunk.

Her fingers burned a little after she finished cutting the batla but it wasn't a great discomfort compared to previous ones in her life. The honey, pressed fresh from the comb, smelled luscious enough before Oberyn added in the spices and peppers--it reminded her of when her mother ordered the cooks to make spiced lemon tea to go with suppers when the chill of the North descended on them for a month or more. She busied herself with cleaning the dagger she'd used, making sure that the pink stains of the peppers did not dry to the blade.

As the drink flowed fast and freely around the camp some dancing broke out at the second fire between some of the ladies and lords--with some of the knights who came alone shouting encouragement. It crept under her skin and Sansa clutched at her cup of wine trying to conceal her discomfort. She did not want to get up and leave for the tent she shared with Oberyn and Ellaria, at least not alone, but the fleeting warmth of safety was soon disappearing. She knew that her Dornish companions meant her no harm, but she knew that wine put men's minds in different places than they would otherwise be.

"Sansa, come here, sit with me." Oberyn beckoned her from where he sat a little away from the fire. His eyes were bright and his smile jovial as it usually was when he was in good company with a bit of wine in him. Unlike when Joffrey would summon her to his side there was no violence looming in the wings, and unlike when Tyrion would summon her there were no derisive or suggestive hoots from those around them. Oberyn's companions treated her as her lady mother had been treated by the people of Winterfell--their lord's lady, respected and revered. Sansa could only hope that it would last through the trip to Sunspear.

"You look faint, have some water," he said, pouring some from a waterskin into her cup. Sansa was glad for it, ignoring the sweet tang the last drops of losennta added to the drink. She let him hold her close to his side, trying to calm her still rising anxiety. Oberyn was mostly safe--very tactile, but mostly safe. Though she'd spent nearly two months with his bannermen and their ladies Sansa knew she had to keep her guard up when this much drink flowed between this many people.

"Are all Dornish parties like this?" she asked, knowing that if they were she would perhaps become as much of a recluse as Prince Doran was rumored to be. Her husband shook his head as he swallowed the last of his cup of wine, speaking as he poured another.

"No, my love. They are celebrating a great many things. The little butcher, Joffrey, is dead. Their Princess, Elia, and her children will deliver their murderer to the Stranger for proper judgment. Their Prince has saved and married a lady of even temper and beauty. And," he grinned and whispered, "we are all, to a man and woman, going home alive." Sansa slowly set aside her cup and steeled her nerves then, moving slowly to sit on his lap and tuck her head on his shoulder. A year ago she had wanted this from someone like her mother, but now she did it because no one would dare touch her if she was in his arms. Oberyn easily made room for her, handing his own wine to Ser Prestan as the man led Ellaria towards one of the tents.

"Will you calm me? I fear I shall begin shaking," she said, as softly as she could manage against the noise. Oberyn turned his full attention on her, dark eyes curious and contemplative. Slowly the arm he'd looped about her waist dropped lower, his hand splaying out on her hip and Sansa chanted in her mind _he will not overstep--he's promised and he doesn't break promises_ over and over again as his other hand lifted her chin just barely so she would look him in the eye.

"How do I go about that, my princess?" She gulped and shook her head, reaching up for his hand and guiding it to her lips--kissing the ring on his thumb and then his palm before putting it to her cheek.

"Like Ellaria did, so I do not embarrass myself," she said, unable to meet his eyes then even as he gently trailed his fingertips down her neck and rested his thumb in the hollow of her throat. She twitched when a sap pocket snapped in the fire, her gut twisting with nerves as she tried to relax against him. To his credit, Oberyn did not fall on her like some wild dog. In her rational mind she knew that he was alike to most people from Dorne and he did not suffer the presence of the kinds of violent men she'd known in King's Landing--but while the fires roared almost as loud as the reveling Dornish it was hard to remember it through the haze the wine left.

He kissed her gently at first, almost just touching his lips to her skin, and when she looked into his eyes she saw a simple sort of joy in them. Where Ellaria had shared the idea of pleasure and comfort, Oberyn now showed her happiness and a certain playfulness as he murmured encouragements to her between kisses. The celebration's noise faded and her heart beat fast for another reason when Oberyn stood up to lead her away to their tent. She enjoyed his arms around her and the spicy taste of his mouth, giggling when he laid her out on her bed and peppered her neck and shoulders with kisses. His grin was infectious moments later when he kissed her eyelids, but it faded when she opened her eyes again. That curious look was in his eyes again, as though he was trying to solve some grand puzzle only he could see. It was a bit thrilling to think that she was that puzzle, and it may have been the losennta talking but she wanted to have his skin on hers.

With that in mind she reached between them, trying to find the belt that kept him decent, only to have him stop her.

"I want to--please, Oberyn--" he hushed her words with a kiss, winding his fingers between hers.

"I cannot know if that is the wine speaking--either making you lie or making me deaf to what you are really saying. I will not brutalize you and excuse the blame on an accident of drink," he murmured even as he wrapped his arms a little tighter around her. She _did_ like being pressed up against him and settled for what he would give her. The storm inside had calmed, even though the party outside had gotten even louder.

Sansa did not like to call what she felt right then 'safe' but it was. For just a few hours, curled up in her dress of Stark gray, Sansa felt safe in the nest of a viper's arms.

 

* * *

 

The following morning they broke camp and continued on their journey to Bitterbridge. Oberyn said, as he helped her up to sit in front of him, that they would spend a few days resting and stocking their supplies before continuing on to Longtable and from there head into the Tyrell-controlled portion of the Dornish Marches. Sansa listened with an attentive ear, remaining still an active agent in her own escape. Aside from this, however, she was not very talkative for most of the early morning. Her head pounded terribly from the wine and a bilious knot of embarrassment simmered in her gut at her behavior the previous evening.

"Do you sing, Princess?" Ser Prestan asked on the second day riding after they'd broken their first camp while Ellaria tried to coax him in for a kiss. The man was light-skinned for a Dornishman, but his flashing black eyes gave him away nearly immediately. Sansa, lost in her own thoughts as she stared out at the countryside of the Reach, glanced up at Oberyn before answering.

"I used to, Ser." It was an answer meant to be courteous and conversation ending, and she'd used it to great effect in the past. Sansa was yet wary of conversations struck up out of the blue and had learned in King's Landing to kill them before they could grow to hurt her. Therefore Prestan's follow-up question took her slightly aback.

"In Valyrian or Andaii?" Sansa took a deep, even breath. How Arya would have laughed had she known Sansa's change in attitude over the last few years. Songs were no longer magical--and knights were seldom noble.

"I preferred Valyrian for the fantasies of princesses and fated lovers. So many of the Andaii songs are about the glory of war and valor, and I have always found little about war to be glorious or valiant. As I said, I used to sing but I have not in a great while."

Her companions said nothing for a few dozen feet, but then Oberyn spoke up in a careful tone.

"My Princess, do you know 'Vaehytho Vrasar'?" Sansa's shoulders tensed at his question but dutifully tried to form a polite reply. It was a song about the sun and moon and served as an encouragement for lovers to overcome obstacles. Instead of ignoring his effort at conversation, she consciously relaxed against him and rested a hand on his where it rested on the pommel of the saddle.

"I do, but it is a duet, Prince Oberyn. I cannot sing it by myself."

"If I sang it with you, my love, would you sing for us? I do not ask more than that." Sansa ducked her head, hiding her face behind her red hair as it tumbled free around her head. What was a hairstyle of mourning in the Crownlands, two conservative braids from the temples to the back of the head, was a hairstyle of elegant ladies in the North--and he had asked her to present herself as a Princess of Dorne but also as a Queen of the North. The style also made for excellent concealment of her thoughts, something she was glad he afforded her.

"You cannot begin singing for so many and only perform one song, my prince. Are there any others you would hear?" She carefully stepped around the warm place he'd taken residence in in her bosom and erred on the side of caution.

"None, Sansa, if you do not wish to sing them. I know songs enough for the company. All I ask for is 'Vaehytho Vrasar' and nothing more." He grinned at her before beginning the first verse--a curling lyric about the tribulation of the sun burning too hot to keep company near. Sansa listened intently, joining her voice when the troubles of the lonely moon were to be shared, and tried to ignore the way the song prophesied for her marriage.

The moon became mother to a multitude of the sun's children and birthed the trueborn lands and seas all men walked and sailed upon--and the grandchildren of the sun and moon were the dragons of Old Valyria.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So some things I am going to be trying to keep close to the book. Others close to the show, and others I am going to play a little fast and loose with to add a bit of depth where I choose to exclude the book and there is a hole in the show's canon. The song about the sun and moon is one of those fast and loose things, let me know how it works for you!
> 
> And thank you all so much for reading, it is a pleasure to write knowing who is reading! Let me know what you think of this chapter if you have a moment!


	14. Oberyn, Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get a bit mature in this chapter so beware of that if that's something you're not down for. Not anything super smexy, but yeah. Oberyn has a dirty mind.

They entered the gates of Bitterbridge in a flood of oranges and yellows several days later singing together, Ellaria laughing at him when he forgot words that Sansa had memorized by heart long ago, with the company joining in on some of the less formal songs. He had not meant it to be so, but their duet had been followed by a song about the Warrior and the Maiden. His voice rose and fell easily in the melody, only stuttering when he realized Sansa hummed the harmony in time with him.

He remembered her warm kisses--the drink had made her free with them and made him wonder what she would be like if she ever let him make love with her. Ellaria let him lay back and enjoy--for he enjoyed letting her do what she wanted with him, loving her every move, far more than being the creative one. Sansa he couldn't yet tell what she would like or want--she might let him put his head between her legs and make her scream, she might want his weight on her while she cradled his hips with hers, she might even if he was very lucky sit above him with his hands on her hips while her red hair cascaded down and around her shoulders.

When he switched which hand held the reins she took the other and flattened it against her abdomen gently. Oberyn smiled and kept singing, though he did press faintly against her belly. How he wanted to see what sort of woman she lit up to be--and he wanted to see if the Tully red hair of of his wife would carry through to his own child against the strength of his Dornish blood. He could and would wait, though.

In the meantime he admired Sansa's quick thinking--they had been married for two months now, more than enough time for him to have put a child in her. Let the spies in Bitterbridge report to their masters that Princess Sansa Martell, heir to Houses Stark and Tully, grew round with child. She would soon be in Dorne and they would be unable to reach her entirely. Besides, it gave the whole company a reason to be boisterous and loud with celebration--their Prince was to have a tenth child within the year.

If it was an outright lie he did not much mind. Young wives lost babes often enough, so it would not be marked as strange should no child come of such early tidings.

When they arrived at the keep he left Ellaria and Sansa with one of Lord Caswell's sisters and took Ser Prestan up to one of the rooms they'd been given, kissing and clutching at the knight who willingly shrugged out of as much clothing as he could muster. They'd each had enough men often enough that their movements were easy and controlled, nothing rushed or lingered on that didn't need it. Sex on the road wasn't something he avoided normally, but he knew that despite her permission his wife would be mortified to overhear any of his conquests--and he dearly wanted keep her from feeling guilty at not sharing his bed with himself or his lovers.

She'd been taught, as most women outside of Dorne were, that a wife set aside was a wife failed--and he aimed to teach her that a wife was always free to choose who she willed, at the very least, and listening was different from learning. If Sansa wished to have the children of one of his bannermen, he would not shame or condemn her. He would congratulate her on her happiness. He could only hope she would do the same, he thought as expert fingers quickly unlaced smallclothes.

Ellaria had been greedy, he decided within minutes, she had been very, _very_ greedy.

 

* * *

 

Sansa saw her husband, from the corner of her eye, spirit away Ellaria's knight. In truth it eased some of her worries, knowing he shared a bed with whoever would take him. He was discreet, and it meant that he did not feel some entitlement to her that she was merely withholding. That had been her fear with Tyrion--she knew he had stopped his whoremongering upon their engagement, that he promised he would remain true to her despite her fear of him, that he would respect her wish to not share his bed or have his children. They had been pretty promises only, and Queen Cersei had been fond of reminding her that all men had needs. Men had needs that must be taken care of, sometimes by force because a woman's unwillingness was half of their fun.

There had been an unshakeable and very deep belief that if she trusted Tyrion's promise too long he would order his bodyguards to hold her down for him or some equally horrifying thing. When she had nightmares about Tyrion Lannister, his face was not the main terror as much as he'd flattered himself it might be.

As cynical as it was, she knew Oberyn would probably never order her held down because she had nothing new to offer him between Ellaria and his knights. There was another part of her too, small and flickering as it was, that remembered his passing of judgment on Gregor Clegane and that pleased squint to his eyes as Joffrey died of poison. Oberyn Martell did not tolerate men like Clegane or Joffrey. There was then a dim remembrance of something her uncle, Benjen, had once said when telling them about the denizens of the Night's Watch.

_As for Dorne, we almost never get dungeon scum from them, mostly just runners from the law if they can make it to the Reach. If it's bad enough only the Watch will save you then the Dornish don't want you saved.They don't think you're worth the effort to send so far North, so they take care of it in...Hellholt, I think, House Uller. Your father knows better than I about Dorne, though, children._

Ellaria took her elbow and led her to follow their hosts for a small sampling of Highgarden wines, and Sansa realized another thing while watching Oberyn steal away with Ser Prestan: she wanted him, and wished her courage were strong enough to go to him.

The Caswell ladies were pleasant enough to her but nothing like the bounty of kindness she had experienced from Lady Margaery nor the curt wit of Lady Olenna. Their smiles were a bit plastered as she and Ellaria stood arm in arm, not relinquishing one another's protection amidst these strangers. Her time with Oberyn and the other Dornish lords had taught her that there was a certain thin veneer they put between themselves and those they considered outsiders. It wasn't like the lies and fients of King's Landing--it was like the courtesies and graces she had meticulously cultivated to keep herself alive for the last two years. She was very good at it already and knew that being married to Oberyn Martell meant she would only get better.

It was just after noon and they had completed a tour of the rooms available to visitors when Ser Prestan ghosted by them and stole Ellaria--so Sansa made her excuses that she needed to speak with her husband and searched him out. There was a rising paranoia in her in being alone. She'd been freed from her prison but her feet hadn't hit soil to call home yet and she only knew enough of daggers to keep her grip on one.

Oberyn was standing behind a screen when she entered their room and as she rested against the closed door she stayed quiet, watching him in whatever natural environment he had. She hoped that he hadn't had his tryst in here, but if he had she would order the sheets changed and make no other mention of it.

"If you are not Ellaria Sand or Sansa Martell I suggest you leave," Oberyn said, still not having turned to see her. Sansa smiled and walked towards the screen. He chuckled, turning with his eyes still closed, and said, "I did warn you."

"Peace," she said with a small laugh, "it is only me." Oberyn scoffed, opening his eyes and looking at her with a lazy sort of affection.

" _Only_ you, Sansa? You are a great deal better than _only_." She smiled, putting a hand on the top of the screen and resting her forehead on her knuckles. Oberyn sloshed around a little and she peeked up at his face, questions written all over her own.

"A Dornish Summer bath, my love. A tub of cold water, soap, a jug, and a scrubbing brush. Hand me a sheet?"

Sansa walked to the--still neatly made--bed and pulled a sheet from it. As she wrestled with it she remembered a sunlit morning when a nightmare had followed her straight out of her dreams. The queen had been little help with her moonblood while Shae had had such inventive ways of dealing with it. She found herself blushing when she handed the cloth to Oberyn, unable to look up from her feet when he asked her to come around the screen.

A finger lifted her chin and her mouth went dry at the sight of him, still damp from his 'bath,' with the sheet wrapped haphazardly around his waist. Just behind him sat a small tub, one that her mother might have washed Rickon in when he was a babe, with fading suds clouding the surface. She dragged her eyes back to his face, noticing that his hair had a wild curl to it when wet and that the silver dotting his temples faded slightly as well.

"I can show you how it works, if you're curious," he said after the silence had stretched too long, his fingers resting lightly on the column of her neck. Sansa's next breath was shallow--he could mean so much more with those words. Ellaria had told her, during the first days of her marriage, that Oberyn was the sort of insatiable man that high and lowborn women both dreamed of visiting their beds--it had been part of an answer about his daughters, of whom Ellaria was mother to four.

Sansa hadn't washed the road from herself yet, and she wanted to be properly bathed before supping with the Caswells. With only barely shaking hands she reached for the clasps that kept her overdress secure and closed. Oberyn flicked an up eyebrow at her and she nodded, letting out a sigh of air and breathing another in slowly.

"Just a bath I think, if you will help me out of this." He grinned, wide and wild, and gently set to work on the stays and clasps of her outfit. Sansa chose to trace the muscles of his arms with a fingertip, marvelling at the elegant shape of them. Her gut clenched when his thumb brushed the underside of her breast as he opened the corset. There was still her shift beneath it but she'd rarely been this bare around him since their wedding day. So much had happened in just under three months, she thought as she helped him slip the shift from her shoulders.

He cradled her face between his hands, thumbs sweeping across her cheeks once, and though this was the first time she'd willingly bared her skin to him he did not look at her body.

"Just a bath, then, my love," he finally said, taking her hand in a steady grip as she stepped into the sudsy water. A thrill went through her body at the temperature change and Sansa remembered the cold drizzling days of Winterfell. Perhaps some things she would be able to keep from her past, despite marrying into the independent southron princedom of Dorne.

"The water is cold, because using hot water is stifling during the Summers in Dorne," he murmured, bending to fill the water jug for her. When he stood up again Oberyn's eyes were admiring in a way that made her want to throw her chin a little higher with pride--he did not make her feel dirty by wanting her.

Her breath hitched for the first few minutes whenever he helped tip water down her body, and his gentle touches when he gave her the soap and scrubbing brush left her feeling so flush she welcomed the next jugful of water poured over her head. The sheet she'd gotten for him barely clung to his hips as he helped her and she remembered their wedding night.

Oberyn had seen her scars and said nothing to her about it--she remembered his gasp well enough though--and she had glimpsed his naked body in the firelight of their room. Well, she reasoned with herself, he had just seen her bare skin so she deserved to see his. With a flick of her hand she snatched the damp cloth fell away from him to cover herself with it while her husband crowed out a laugh.

"If you wanted a sheet to dry with you could ask, my love!" he laughed even as he picked up the trailing edge of the sheet and threw it over her head. By the time she'd gotten herself untangled--miraculously not falling down in the process--he had managed to get into a pair of breeches. Sansa, feeling revitalized and brave after the 'bath,' put her arms around Oberyn's waist once she had the sheet wrapped around her as she wanted. There was still admiration in his eyes and she brought a hand up to rest over his heart. The beat was strong and steady while her own heart raced.

"I wish I wasn't still so scared," she finally said after they'd stood there for a long moment, her forehead now resting on his collarbone. He took a deep breath and wound one of his fingers in her damp hair.

"I could promise you there is naught to be scared of, but I do not know what would frighten you and I do not know when your wounds will heal. All I can promise, Sansa," he leaned back a little and she looked up at him through her eyelashes, "is that I will listen to you in this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how did you like it? Let me know!


	15. Oberyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing really happens in this chapter, just kind of some filler and Oberyn being introspecty because why not.

He managed to get a shift on her before laying her back on the bed, grinning the whole time as he leaned up on his elbow to look down at her. Her hair, red as blood now that it was wet, spread out in damp tendrils on the pillows. Sansa tenderly combed her fingers through his hair and he hummed appreciatively. She had sweet but uncertain smiles for him as he put his hand on her side, his thumb rubbing at one of her ribs.

"We have some time before, supper..." she said as she trailed a fingertip down his nose. Sansa canted her head away from him, biting her lip before glancing back to him. The room they'd been given was bright and open as was preferred here in the Reach as well as in Dorne and she glowed in the light. He didn't say anything, letting her have her way with his sideburn, his ear.

"Your ear is scarred, just here," she said, ticking her thumbnail over a small lump on the shell of his ear.

"My daughter Sarella's mother pierced it, in the Summer Isles. We danced around each other for weeks--she would not let me take her to bed, and then she said she would _if_ I sailed with her from Lotus Port to three islands _I_ had not been to before with a ring in my ear." She shifted a little, uncomfortable with the mention of one of his children. Oberyn might have relented then, backed off and let her take the afternoon in a new direction, but decided that perhaps she would enjoy laughing at him.

"I of course agreed and let her pierce the ear, not realizing that the second part of the agreement was a fine golden chain leading from the earring to a loop on her belt. It humbled me--a Prince of Dorne led around a pirate ship on a lead. When she bore my child and sailed to Sunspear to leave her with me in front of the entire court, I held Sarella in my arms and smiled."

"Would you have married her if she asked you to?" Oberyn stilled, curling a little closer to her and taking her hand. Once their fingers were linked, laying easily on her stomach, he thought he might have an answer for her.

"I was yet a man of the desert, not yet fully tamed." That brought out a belly laugh from her, her fingers clutching his as she laughed. He tried to keep a straight face as she struggled to get out her response.

"I do not think you shall ever be fully tamed, Oberyn," she said through her giggles and Oberyn couldn't help but descend into laughter as well for he fully agreed. She let go of his hand and slowly urged him down to kiss her. The fact that they were supposed to dress for supper was forgotten as he let her kiss him. A grin split his lips briefly when she put both arms around his bare torso to bring him closer to her.

"Greedy," he said against her lips, kissing down her jaw and to her throat. She moaned and a few of her nails scratched at his back as she stretched her neck for him. It was glorious to taste her skin and smell her natural scent with the soap. Sansa's hair would be tangled but he would help her comb it out--if he didn't fall asleep as Ellaria had when confronted with an afternoon in Sansa's arms.

It was his turn to moan when she guided his hand to her chest. The motion was hesitant but all her own and he whispered a praise into her ear while she shivered under his touch. She was responsive and warm--he'd skip supper gladly to just stay here with her, but it wasn't to be. There were obligations to take care of since the Caswells were being so gracious-- under a stern order from Olenna Redwyne, he knew, but at least they were making an effort.

Ellaria came into the room, freshly bathed and perfumed, and interrupted them as the sun was slanting into the room as late afternoon took over. He and Sansa were laying together in the middle of the bed, just breathing together while he shared stories of his adventures in Essos. Her curiosity was encouraging--it meant she was considering having something to live for, when she hadn't just months ago.

"I shant sup with those ladies alone, my dears, you had best dress. I've a gown for you Sansa, if you aren't planning on arriving in your shift," Ellaria said with a laugh as she sat behind Oberyn, pinching his hip playfully as she did. Sansa mumbled a disagreement to Ellaria's words, batting at the air as though they descended on her like snow. Oberyn laughed and kissed her solidly on the mouth before disentangling himself from her arms, stretching as he stood up.

 

* * *

 

"My husband and I thank you for your hospitality, Lord and Ladies Caswell. We are pleased to break our journey here in Bitterbridge before making for Sunspear," Sansa said once the wine had been poured. Lord Caswell raised a trembling glass in acknowledgment and Oberyn schooled his face away from a smirk. The Tyrell bannerman had bet and lost heavily in recent years on Baratheons and likely saw his hospitable gesture to Dorne as a way to curry favor from those in Highgarden who remembered his tepid involvement and withdrawal from the War of the Five Kings.

"Indeed, Lord Caswell, the company is glad for your courtesy. It will also allow us to properly prepare for our journey home," Oberyn added instead of laughing behind his hand at the Caswells' discomfort. Ellaria followed Sansa in raising a glass, and soon all of the Dornishmen in the room joined them in a toast to Lord Caswell and his sisters. The feast wasn't grand but it was well appointed and perfectly cooked.

Oberyn wondered, as he chewed thoughtfully on the roast duck, what these people had heard of Joffrey's wedding pie being poisoned. It was frankly amazing he hadn't been arrested for the simple fact that he was well known as a poisoner, but he supposed that his distance and shock had supplied his innocence well enough. Sansa's dwarf husband had perhaps been a boon as well for the queen had been unable to see past her hated brother as her son lay dead.

As much as he hated the Lannisters he did understand the pain and fear Queen Cersei must have felt. Her children were her safety and her power, and he _had_ met Princess Myrcella Baratheon. The girl was a treasure and obviously well-loved if a little spoiled. Queen Cersei could little help it if her eldest son had inherited the madness of incest or had been unable to rein the boy in under the influence of the great butcher king, Robert Baratheon. It was no wonder to anyone in Dorne how Joffrey had turned out.

King Joffrey was a child born of incest and raised up in the fashion of Baratheon bloodmongering and irresponsibility. It had been a boon for the Seven Kingdoms to put such a young man to the funeral pyre, for his continued rule would have only resulted in more death and war such as hadn't been seen since Robert's Rebellion. Glancing over at his wife, who made pleasant conversation with one of the Caswell ladies, Oberyn knew that girls such as Sansa Stark and Margaery Tyrell would have been the first put to the sword had the young butcher king lived.

"Lord Caswell, I do have an odd request for you. My wife will require a good horse to take her safely through the Dornish Marches, and I wonder if I might purchase one from you before we leave. We had little time for wedding gifts and I would see her have such a gift from me." Lord Caswell looked about to decline when one of his sisters interrupted what him.

"My brother will be most happy to, Prince Oberyn. Is it a Dornish custom to present a bride with a horse?" Oberyn's smile was chipper and inappropriate to his response, for he was a man who appreciated honesty and he was honestly happy to reply to the question.

"No, a Dothraki one, but I am sure that our quick marriage must look as barbaric to those outside of Dorne as a Dothraki wedding would. I simply wish to give my wife something useful for I enjoy seeing to her needs, Lady Caswell." Ellaria kicked him and he shot a pouting look at her right as Sansa kicked him too. Ellaria was giving him the 'behave' look while Sansa's cheeks were flushed pink with embarrassment. It was becoming well-known what needs he enjoyed seeing to--nearly as soon as the realm had had news of Sansa Starks marriage to Lord Tyrion Lannister the news had come that Sansa Lannister had been separated from her husband by the will of the Seven and given instead in marriage to Prince Oberyn Martell.

Sansa took his hand though soon enough to show her support and the awkward moment in the meal was forgotten. Eyeing her occasionally as she ate her food delicately Oberyn thought that she was very like to his mother who had been a brilliant tactician and perfect lady by equal turns. His little wife would not have survived so long as she had without quickly understanding the game they played in places like the capitol--and then playing the only way it could be won.

There were those that said that power in Westeros was a game of thrones--you won power or you died. Oberyn thought, as Sansa laughed politely at a horrid jest made about the rebellious Ironborn, that there were many ways to lose and the only way to win was to live--and to live by the words of his House.

If Sansa already understood that then she might convince even Obara to her side and that was startling enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can't tell we are getting a bit close to a bit of some smexytimes for these three, but we aren't quite there yet. I will give you a hint though: Oberyn is going to be pleased as punch when he and everyone else arrive in Sunspear.


	16. Oberyn, Sansa

They stayed a week with the Caswells at Bitterbridge. He surprised himself in that he did not grow bored with Prestan as word came that Daemon Sand made his way to meet them at the shrine at Starktear. The small outpost was an intense Dornish secret hidden as sacred ground where water for horses and a little shelter might be found. House Manwoody kept it also as a ravenspost where news of incursions into the Dornish North might be spread. It was where the war had ended for the North, at what had been the Tower of Joy where Lord Eddard Stark had discovered his dying sister. Eight dead men had since then kept an eternal watch at the heart of the Dornish north.

Oberyn's party of course told their hosts that they planned to make their next great stop at Kingsgrave or perhaps making the push all the way to Skyreach. All of Doran's spies indicated that Starktear remained hidden, there was no reason to ever reveal it as anything other than a place of mourning. The Stark lord had requested Doran keep gawkers from the place if possible--Lyanna Stark's bones may have returned North but her spirit haunted the Dornish Marches.

In the years since the woman's death travelers reported nightmares of wolves, grim-faced men, and blood--and a woman's tortured voice carried through the canyons at times, even during the day. Some said it was the spirit of their princess, Elia, while the Martells quietly knew that the ghost was Lyanna Stark who rested fitfully in death. Oberyn hoped that the woman might leave her niece alone, having pity on her own blood.

He spent the mornings, which were becoming chill and brisk, outside with Sansa as he helped her learn to ride again. Once they reached Starktear she would ride her own mount, but there would be little time to teach her before then. A gentle, strong gelding as black as his own stallion, but with a mane like a Targaryen was poached from the Caswell stables. It served his lady well, and it brought her smiles enough to swing up into the saddle on her own. He wondered at how many years, watching her ride in circles around him on a lead.

Sansa's hair flowed out behind her like a banner of blood, rippling in the sunlight.

She let him put a few braids into her hair each morning, still in their nightshifts while Ellaria would sit for Tevira to elaborately style her hair. Ellaria's mother's stomach had begun to calm and her waist would soon begin to show the babe he'd got her with. Oberyn had expected that Sansa would be skittish at this, but instead he often found the two of them in the gardens for the afternoon or their rooms sitting close together or dozing. The fact that they so easily kept peace was certainly a boon--he would not give up Ellaria, he loved her too dearly, but he would not ostracize Sansa either. It could have put a damper on his day to day pleasures if they'd decided to spurn one another.

His wife named her horse Dawn and rode well once she remembered the tricks of it. On the afternoons he could steal away from preparations for the journey through Prince's Pass he would take Ellaria and Sansa riding in the broad fields and hills surrounding Bitterbridge. As always some of his most trusted knights followed him--the Manwoody brothers of course, Prestan Toland, and a few others--for he did not trust people like Lord Lorent Caswell who could not commit to their loyalties and sniveled up to whoever they felt was in power at the moment. A true Lord of the Reach was Lorent Caswell, and Oberyn couldn't help but feel a great deal of disgust at the man himself.

"We will leave in two days time, I hear," Ellaria said as he helped her unpack a small lunch. Sansa, helping Ser Dagos and Ser Myles lay out a blanket, glanced at him curiously and Oberyn nodded in response. The preparations were nearly complete, and though he disliked it he knew that a week of miserable riding lay before them before they reached so far as Hellholt. Ellaria wanted to see her father and announce his next 'grandbastard' as she affectionately termed it.

It would be another week of riding after Hellholt before they reached Sunspear. Would Arianne or Doran greet them there, he wondered? He knew why Doran might abstain, but he dearly hoped to present his gift to his brother before the whole of the court. They would all, to a man and woman, appreciate it.

"Aye, so long as our dear hosts do not require us longer," Oberyn paused and a mischievous smile lit his face, "I do not think Lord Lorent shall grieve our departure." Sansa laughed, straightening and pushing her hair from her face. Oberyn pecked a kiss to Ellaria's cheek and then strode over to his wife. She let him take her hands and lead her a few paces from where their lunch was being laid out. The woman she allowed them to see these days was a pearl, a jewel.

A jewel for the first or best son of one of the six other Great Houses--and she'd been given as a lamb to a butcher king's butcher son. Oberyn did not delude himself that he was the best son of his mother, but Sansa Stark had deserved a prince of the highest calibre--and though his brother was the elder and better son it made Oberyn himself no less of a Prince of Dorne.

"Do you dance, Princess?" She smiled, without hesitation and widely.

"I have not danced in years, Prince Oberyn," she said, the smile now becoming disbelieving--she knew what he was about and thought him foolish or silly. That he ought to know these things about her by now. Oberyn twisted his hands to hold hers in a first form.

"Dance with me, my love," he replied, grinning widely. A faint breeze lifted a tendril of her hair, carrying it gently out from her face with the caress of a lover. Summer was quickly fading, and the usually windless Reach would soon be whipped by winter winds that howled south towards Prince's Pass.

"My Prince, there is no music!" her response was laughing--was high and clear, earnest in tone. Ellaria spoke up then, laughing along with Sansa.

"I know for certain that Ser Myles can sing pretty dancing tunes, for he whistles them to his brother to whistle back. My loves, pray make Ser Myles give words to his songs!"

Ser Myles rolled his eyes but soon began a choppy tune about the hundred coins of a Braavosi swordsmith and how she spent them. Hardly anyone knew the full song aside from minstrels and bards but it was well known that Ser Myles enjoyed pursuits such as singing--and the one he began with was a favorite at feasts across Dorne. Oberyn did not make mention of the song's topic as he taught Sansa the traditional Dornish steps. If she understood and laughed then he would laugh with her, if she did not he would not shame her for naivety or discomfort.

_"The first coin of the hundred she spent on oil--oil--oil to quench the swords and tools of the smithy. I say, the first of the hundred spent on oil. The second, third, and fourth coins of the hundred she spent on grease--grease--grease..."_

Sansa learned incredibly fast--both the meaning of the song and the steps he led her in. She easily kept up with him though her cheeks flamed above a shy smile. He had written to Doran that he would bring priceless treasures back to Sunspear, and Sansa revealed herself daily to be a jewel beyond compare.

* * *

 

Sansa disliked getting up so early after a week of late mornings in privacy. It was a later morning than their flight from King's Landing had been, but they still beat the sun above the horizon by an hour. Oberyn led them as quickly as was safe for the horses, holding her before him as they had on the journey to Bitterbridge. He murmured to her that they would make Ashford by evenfall, and word had already been sent to Lord Ashford that they did not expect to be entertained. Instead they would camp south of the town and leave early the following day. Now that they were underway, her husband meant to return his bannermen to their homes as soon as he could and install her in his own. His plans were exacting and without the certain trust on others that Tyrion's had. For Sansa, who no longer trusted anyone, she found she could put her faith for now in Oberyn.

She slept against his shoulder as they rode, not waking until they stopped to have a small lunch.

"The invitation to the King's wedding from Lord Tywin came almost too late for Prince Doran to respond to, Princess," Ser Deziel spoke up. The knight was from House Dalt, closely allied to the Martells and incredibly in tune with the goings of the court in Sunspear. She found him handsome but she did not trust him. People who knew too much outside of their circles had done too much evil in her life. Her circle comprised of Oberyn and Ellaria--she trusted them, but no others in the party.

The Dornish nobles were kind and pleasant and attentive--and Sansa had been fooled by such things before. If she was honest, parts of her still did not fully trust Oberyn or Ellaria, but she knew their game. The Dornish lords? Only hope of their loyalty to House Martell could reveal any motivations--but she played their game, allowing Ser Prestan to help her down from Oberyn's stallion and dutifully replied to Ser Deziel.

"Too late?"

"We rode like seven devils pursued us, ate most of our meals on our horses. No time for simple pleasures like this, not on Dornish horses with a Dornish prince at the lead," the Dalt man replied, smirking at her husband. She smiled in response, having no words to offer him, and put her hand on Oberyn's elbow when he offered it, setting off walking towards the shady trees. Ellaria took Sansa's free arm and the three of them walked the circumference of the Dornish host. It had been a well appointed party sent to King's Landing--truly fit for swearing fealty to the King at his wedding, to bring Dorne back to the Seven Kingdom's in truth. Tyrion had told her Dorne had been invited as courtesy only. Hardly anyone expected a raven to return accepting the invitation, signed by Prince Doran himself.

It had been a victory for Lord Tywin, she'd been told, that something so simple as an invitation would bring Dorne back to the Seven Kingdoms. _But Dorne remains aloof--a bringer of death and mystery as the Stranger does to the Seven,_ she thought to herself. She still, even after more than a month, couldn't shake the feeling that Oberyn had poisoned Joffrey.

She also couldn't shake the certainty that if he had--he had done it for her.

After they'd eaten and walked a bit more, everyone took to their horses. Sansa, by now well used to putting her foot in a knight's cupped fingers and being lifted into Oberyn's arms, gave no thought to how she must have looked to the company. She might have been surprised at what they saw--

Ellaria and Oberyn's eyes were focused on her, admiring and sharp, directing the gaze of everyone else present. The knights and ladies close to her held their breath as she surveyed them, seeing for the first time truly what her husband saw in her. They had wondered--but did not question, for Prince Oberyn had grown into as fierce a strategist and leader as his elder brother Prince Doran. But here, halfway between Bitterbridge and Ashford in the Esterreach, for the first time they knew what he was doing marrying a girl half his age.

Princess Sansa Martell was no girl--she was as royal a princess as Dorne had seen since the death of Prince Doran and Prince Oberyn's mother, Princess Loreza. And not only that. The Dornish lords and ladies saw in the arms of their Prince a woman who could be Queen of Westeros with a flick of an eyelash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! We are going to have a change of scenery next chapter, so I hope you ate up your Oberyn/Sansa here!


	17. Tyrion

Tyrion almost couldn't believe the audacity of his family. Cersei and Father each acted as though they hadn't put him on trial for mudering Joffrey weeks ago, hadn't anticipated his death with bated breath just hours ago. His sister's mood must have been terrible--perhaps she might have reconciled herself to Loras Tyrell had she been able to have Tyrion's head as a centerpiece to her wedding's feast table and later his skull to drink from as she rotted in Highgarden.

"So the Gods have found you innocent of regicide, Tyrion, therefore we have no man better to send to the Iron Bank," Tywin said as he poured a small goblet of wine for himself, hardly looking from the papers in front of him. Tyrion rubbed at a raw spot on his wrist that had scabbed over at some point during his trial by combat. His guards had never been kind in the application or removal of chains. Had he imagined innocent Sansa Stark covered in the Mountain's blood? Her cheek smeared with the revenge of Oberyn Martell? He swallowed hard as he remembered the bedding sheet presented weeks ago. The Prince of Dorne was renowned for his way with women, it would not surprise Tyrion if that man of all men might persuade Sansa Stark to welcome his attentions.

"The Iron Bank?" he asked when his sister's scowl deepened and she twitched her head away from where Father sat. She obviously knew something and did not find it the least bit pleasant.

"Yes. You are to review the finances of Houses Lannister, Baratheon, and Tyrell in addition to the finances of the Crown itself with a representative of the Iron Bank. The incredible sum we owe to them, of which you are regrettably only half-aware of at the moment, must be paid back and we need to convince them that we will."

"How?! Father, the Baratheon coffers were empty enough before Stannis and Renly helped themselves to their brother's money, and the Crown has had nothing for years." Cersei flinched at this, and Tyrion barely kept back a bitter grin at it. Other times he had felt pity for her, but not now. There was no pity left in him for his sister.

"By the fact that _we_ are coming to _them_ in this matter, by the fact that they know me and my ways as Hand of the King, and by the fact that the Tyrells will be too entwined in the Crown's business and in my business to balk at any expense. Cersei will produce an heir for Highgarden, Margaery will produce an heir for Tommen, and at long last your brother will marry and take up his place as Lord of Casterly Rock."

His father mercifully neglected to mention that if Tyrion had put a child in Sansa he might have at least hoped to become Regent of the Westerlands. He did not want to think about that--the acceptance and power he had struggled for so long had been at such a deceptively easy price as putting his cock between a woman's legs. If Oberyn Martell had been able to look at Sansa, her skin belying the depth of her scars, and do the same then perhaps he had been wrong about Dorne.

It wouldn't be the first time he was wrong about someone, it wouldn't be the last.

"So, I take our case to Braavos and beg them not send Daenerys Targaryen, her Unsullied, and her dragons here to...collect," he said, rolling his shoulders to get back in the groove of the game. There was no other game he could play better, he might as well enjoy it. His father was nodding, signing a document he then slid towards Tyrion.

"Once Joffrey's funeral rites have been completed you will leave the city for Braavos immediately. You will be present at my and Cersei's side for the procession in your best finery. The man accused of King and Kinslaying, defended by the Gods themselves and found innocent--such a man has no trouble attending the funeral of his fallen King."

"Father I do not want him there. I shall spit--"

"Cersei, if you do that, or present yourself in anyway less than a former queen, I shall have you sent to Oldtown to become a Septa. I shall say that your son's death grieved you beyond the demands of noble society." Tywin said as Tyrion quickly glanced at the formal request to the Iron Bank. He had to admit, only a man such as himself or his father would write so bold and commanding a letter when begging for any scrap of help or sympathy to be found. Some of his father's words trickled through though, so he made as pleasant a face for Cersei as he could and added:

"I do not mind if you spit on me, Sister, for then you shall be spared a wedding to Loras Tyrell!" Cersei glared at him, straightening in her seat to resume her queenly posture.

Bronn waited for him outside of the council room, a short letter from Podrick in his hands. They walked through the castle and heading for the bay overlook where once Tyrion had spent an afternoon discussing life with Varys. He'd known better than to fully trust Varys, just as he should've known better to fully trust Bronn. The two men were different coins from the same realm and rewarded loyalty with loyalty--for a price. Bronn's full price was known now--he would act as a sworn blood brother would if Tyrion did the same. Varys kept his own loyalties too close to the vest to ever know.

"Pod says that Lady Brienne did not believe him at first when he said he killed a Kingsguard and that their journey to...Tarth goes well."

"Aye, Tarth. By a more Northerly route than one might expect. Your brother sent them off on it. Ordered up fancy armor for the lady and gave her his fancy Valyrian sword. Not a kiss though, which I thought was fair strange. Could've put a babe in the woman just by the way he looked at her." Tyrion laughed and pocketed the letter in his jerkin.

"That certainly would be a new way of getting children for him." Tyrion feigned a gasp then, "do you think he has a type?" Bronn laughed, drawing the attention of a few courtiers down the hallway. They quickly recognized the capitol's newest Kingslayer and hurried away. Unlike his sainted brother, Tyrion had managed to kill Joffrey by poison whilst standing thirty feet from the boy.

"I think all you Lannister men have a type. You'n'your father have got whores and your brother goes for scary blondes." He scoffed after Bronn finished speaking.

"My father doesn't see whores."

"There you are wrong, my fine, pardoned friend. It takes an eye like mine to see it, but he gets his old fingers on a serving girl as often as that vile Pycelle character. Mark my words, he'll be found dead with one someday."

"Oh my father would loath such a death."

"Why? Seems an honest enough way to go. Happy, too, and there's precious little that's happy in this world."

"Because it tacks too close to his own father's death! My great father--named the youngest Hand of the King since the Conquest, destroyer of Castamere, Warden of the West, heartbroken for a wife dead of the birthing-bed--would as soon drink poison as be found dead with whores."

Bronn shook his head, sucking on his teeth as he thought on his next reply.

"Be that as it may, my bets are on whores."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that was a little palate cleanser. I hope you liked getting to hear from Tyrion and Bronn about what they got up to after the trial! Let me know what you think!


	18. Sansa

Sansa laughed when, before they left Ashford, Oberyn presented her a peculiar layered cloak. It was a deep orange that bordered on red, the fabrics of a tight, opaque weave, and at the neck a cowl emerged sewn with elaborate embroidery. Her husband swung it over her shoulders, ignoring her laughter though there was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, and closed for her with a gilded Martell sigil brooch.

"It is still Summer in Dorne for a few weeks more, you will appreciate this sooner than you think Sansa," he said, looping a sapphire blue scarf over her head and under her chin before bringing the cowl over her head and pinning it so it wouldn't blow in the wind. The other Dornishmen were donning similar cloaks and cowls--the men's were long, elaborate things that trailed the ground as they walked. The ladies all wore cloaks like Sansa's own, the scarves covering their necks in vivid jewel tones of pink, purple, green, and black.

"The sun burns even Dornishmen, my love," Ellaria said to her, a blue scarf of her own framing her face like a Septa's coverment. Ser Myles and Ser Prestan helped Oberyn don his own yellow and orange cloak, arranging it artfully over the horse's back once he'd swung up and settled himself. Sansa glanced at Dawn, tethered to Ser Myles' horse, and wondered what she herself would look like in a few days' time. The saffron yellows and oranges of the Dornish clothing brought out rich tones of red in the chestnut coats of the horses, but the mounts she and Oberyn had were each black. Oberyn's stallion, Caerul, looked all the darker for the bright orange and yellow that surrounded him.

"Princess may we help you?" Ser Prestan's voice was soft and kind--as though knowing she'd gotten caught up in a reverie and was loath to break her from it. She smiled, grateful for his care and consideration, and nodded to him in assent. Both Ellaria and Oberyn had bedded him--though she wasn't at all sure Oberyn had made it to a bed--and they neither of them suffered cruel men. She had little reservation putting her hands on his shoulders so he and Ser Myles could lift her up to Oberyn.

"We make for the cairns at Starktear, keep an eye for Baratheon bannermen until we reach the Dornish border," Oberyn announced loudly once she was secured in front of him. Caerul, sending their departure, danced a little beneath them. The company, nearly genderless now save the women's bright scarves against the nearly uniform flame and sand colors worn by the men, murmured their agreements and guided their horses into an orderly line behind Oberyn's lead.

"Surely the Baratheons--" she whispered, curious at his specific order.

"My love, my people have been at war with the Stormlands for five hundred years or more--off and on, of course. I do not trust them any farther than they can fly. There is no room to grow complacent when we are out of the beast's maw but still within its forest," Oberyn said softly, the hand he had wrapped around her frimer than it had ever been since he'd first met her.

_My name is Oberyn Martell of Dorne. I am not a Lannister trick--if you want out of here, kiss me now. Kiss me like your life depends on it because it does._

Sansa had never heard a Dornish accent before the day he'd come to her, sweeping her close and nearly spitting his words he spoke so fast. Sansa had only a moment to decide and she took what he offered. Even if he had been a trick, she owed her family--her dead, defiled family--her every effort to escape. There was no one left save Jon--who she'd never been good to--so none would mourn her should she fail.

When Oberyn pushed her away that day, shock written on his body but not his face, her heart had clenched painfully in her chest. He had to have been some trick she thought, laying awake all night and for once not thinking of her dead mother, brothers, sister, and father, but instead her thoughts were of the man in the yellow robe belted low at his hips. He had to have been some spy, she'd decided, when summoned with Shae to the Tower of the Hand. Whatever happened she would bear it though. She had been brave, she'd stood on her own two feet and been as brave as a Stark ought.

King's Landing, and all its horrors, seemed very far off now as Oberyn led them out of the grassy valley of Ashfordtown and towards the dusky hills of the Dornish Marches. The party, loud and boisterious in days past, remained quiet as the heat rose and the humidity of the air dissipated. A glance at Ellaria, who rode again with Ser Prestan today, revealed the woman deeply asleep. One hand was cradled on her belly and the other on Prestan's arm. Even though Ellaria loved Oberyn, she also trusted Ser Prestan--it was an incredible thing to Sansa, that she too might trust knights and lords once more. For now though Sansa would abstain from it.

"I trust you, Oberyn," she said softly, keeping her voice down for she did not want this to be common knowledge. He made no comment, eyes focused on the road ahead of them as it became rockier and narrower, but he slid his hand from her hip to her ribs, hugging her tightly to his chest.

The sky, bright blue and empty in the morning, filled with towering clouds as the day progressed. Sansa gazed at them in awe as they grew higher and higher. The clouds of the North had been bulky and low, weighed down by the heavy rains they occasionally brought before drifting farther north towards the Wall to leave snow there. In King's Landing it had hardly ever rained it seemed like, only a light drizzle at times, and the Queen had said that Winter in the capitol would be a mild affair. Septa Mordane would have been mortified if she'd known that Sansa didn't remember or know what Winter would be like in Dorne.

Her husband led them on an obscure trail that hugged the eastern side of the valley that was Prince's Pass. The path climbed on switchbacks to nearly the crests of the mountains, heading ever southward as they went on. Oberyn had called the place Starktear and Sansa wondered if that was where Father had found Aunt Lyanna so many years ago. It struck her as strange to think of her father weeping, but he had been of an age with herself back then and had also lost so many of his family. She had wept when her ordeal in King's Landing, for better or worse, was ended--perhaps here in the Dornish Marches her father's ordeal had ended as well.

Sansa tucked her head under Oberyn's chin after the midday meal and would have dozed off save for the fact that thunder bellowed through the sky and a bolt of lightning forked down to a distant, rain covered peak. If her husband hadn't had a firm grip on her she might have fallen from the horse. He chuckled in her ear, kissing her temple through the cowl and scarf.

"I do not know why it surprises you, Princess, it is only thunder and lightning over the Stormlands. What are your words?" Sansa gulped the shaking out of her voice to answer him--husbands liked to hear the House words from their wives, Mother had told her, and she'd gone more than two months without being asked to parrot them. House Martell had good words, she thought as she opened her mouth to speak.

"Unbow--"

"No my love. _Your_ words," he interrupted her. Sansa stared at the storm across the mountains, thinking for a long moment of home, of her words. The sad, tired sounding words of the Starks against the violence of thunder and fire from the sky.

"Winter is coming."

"Aye, winter is coming. Look how it flies across the mountains," Oberyn murmured into her ear, a little awe in his voice as the storm built higher and louder, racing across the sky towards them. She had never seen thunderstorms or lightning of such violence and it was exciting as it was scary.

The air was still hot and dry when the storm overtook them, making the air sticky with rain. Sansa mourned the bright colors of the party's clothing, for they would surely wash away in the wet, but otherwise was glad for the cloak and cowl. That which had protected and kept her relatively comfortable from the sun and heat also now kept the rain at bay for a time. When they reached Starktear and dismounted she was well-soaked but they were soon ushered into a secret building by men bearing the arms of House Manwoody. Ser Myles and Ser Dagos clasped arms with their men, introducing the rest of the host.

"You did not stop on your way to King's Landing, we thought perhaps they'd offered up Lannister heads as prizes for a joust," one of the men said with a laugh as Oberyn lifted her sopping cloak from her shoulders. Outside the air had been hot and she'd been comfortable--now in the cool of the shelter she felt goosebumps rise on her skin and a shiver set in. Sansa tried to hide it but Oberyn saw her discomfort and snapped a finger for a dry blanket.

"Not Lannister heads, sers, our Prince brought only Dornish justice," Ellaria said, shrugging out of her cloak and tousling her hair dry, "but we do return with a head. And congratulate your Prince, for he's been made a husband by this visit." Oberyn smirked, letting one of Ser Dagos' men take his riding cloak. The Manwoody men made the appropriately shocked noises, now seeing for the first time that Sansa was not dressed as a servant but as a fine lady.

"Sers, my paramour and I present my wife Sansa of House Stark. She is heir to Winterfell and Riverrun, and a Princess of Dorne." She curtsied, keeping her blush at bay as the company curtsied or bowed as was their bent. Unlike when she'd been the intended of the Crown Prince and later King she did not feel like a duckling among doves and she wondered where that might have come from for she was an outsider now more than ever.

Just as it was becoming a little awkward--for she had no idea what a Princess of Dorne ought to say to her husband's bannermen--Oberyn twitched and as he took her close to his side he gestured towards Ellaria.

"And Ellaria Sand will bear my ninth child within the year. I will share stories of the capitol once the horses have been tended to, my loves put into dry clothing, and some sort of supper has been tabled."

"Might we see the head, Prince Oberyn?"

"Whose head do you bring with you, Prince?"

Oberyn waved the questions away, grabbing Ellaria and pulling her along with him--calling over his shoulder that he would show everything in due time, but that they needed dry clothing first. The chamber he led them to was cold on Sansa's wet skin, windowless but lit with several torches that brought to life the tapestries hanging on the walls. He shed everything but his breeches before helping Sansa and Ellaria out of their dresses, laying the clothing in a wet heap near the door. In just her smallclothes she felt the cold seep into her bones and Sansa was reminded painfully of Winterfell. In Winterfell the walls and rooms had rarely been cold unless someone like Bran or Arya carelessly left a window open.

While Ellaria stretched out on the bed, wrapping herself up in the blankets to warm up, Sansa turned to face Oberyn. Her arms were crossed over her chest protectively at first as she worked up the nerve to meet his eyes. She could feel how warm his skin was from the distance of several inches and wondered how he kept himself from just grabbing her. Men in King's Landing had tried to grab her for far less, and far more men had threatened to, but Oberyn's hands remained at his sides motionless.

His eyes were warm with desire for her, she saw when she looked up at his face, but he did not move even when her arms slowly dropped from her chest and she took his fingertips with hers. Sansa traced each finger, each major line on his palms, before lifting one hand and pressing it to her bare breast--relishing in the breath he sucked in as she did so. It was a little scary when he put his arm around her waist and held her hips flush with his, then, but it also thrilled her when he bent to kiss her.

Sansa hardly noticed Ellaria, smirking as she robed herself in a sheet, sneak past them out into the corridor, didn't hear the flirtatious comment of one of the serving girls, because her attention was focused on the man in front of her. Oberyn's kisses were distracting and enticing, kisses she could hardly tear herself from even to gasp when he rolled her teat between his thumb and forefinger. It made her rock against him, wanting whatever he could give her.

"I don't know what comes next," she said, her words barely audible even in the silence of the room. Oberyn tilted his head, studying her in the yellow light of the torches--surely his blood was as high as hers, it had to be. "Tell me, please." She didn't know why it was different now--perhaps the way the company had relaxed as they were bundled into the secret keep at Starktear at the edge of the Dornish North had put her at ease with this man.

"Well, my love, your smallclothes go--as well as mine. You are a maiden, so," he began, dropping his hand from her breast to the ties of her smallclothes, playing with the hem of them.

"I know it will be very painful, that I will bleed," she interrupted his pause only to have him silence her with a look.

"That is not my nor any other Dornishman's way. I will get you ready to be a woman before I make you one. If I do it right--and I do intend to do it right my love--you should hardly bleed."


	19. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here be smexytimes....ye've been warned!

"Can I lift you up?" he asked, lips still on hers. Sansa nodded, gasping when he picked her up and she instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist. He grinned, laughing with her now that their faces were level. She shivered a little as her breasts pressed flat to his chest, smooth in the way that little Tyrion Lannister's hadn't been. She could feel him walking towards the bed, surely and slowly, as he looked into her eyes steadily.

"You trust me?" he said as he sat down, sitting motionless until she nodded. Sansa was glad he hadn't put her underneath him--she knew that was how this would go, that much had been explained to her by her mother before leaving Winterfell, but Oberyn was at least letting her get used to the feel of their skin together. The room was still cold, but he was warm enough for now.

Their smallclothes hadn't been removed yet and for that she was glad. Though diminutive, they were something to protect her from where his manhood pressed. Oberyn leaned away from her kisses, looking at her in the flickering light of the torches and ghosting touches on her chest and belly. Sansa shivered in his arms when he bent forward to lay a few kisses to her collarbone.

Sitting on his lap wasn't as taxing as sitting a horse, though her muscles burned slightly at her very inner thighs. His hair was luxurious and thick between her fingers and he hummed appreciation as she scratched his scalp. Sansa tilted her head to let him slide open-mouthed kisses up her neck. She'd gotten used to this part well enough while they'd been staying with the Caswells in Bitterbridge.

"My Sansa," Oberyn whispered into her ear, holding her close as he slowly turned them over and laid her back on the bed. The bedding was mussed from Ellaria rolling around in it but honestly Sansa was glad because it meant they didn't also have to contend with pulling the sheets loose. Her heart was racing as he made sure she lay comfortably, hands gentle on her belly and sides as he kissed a line from her throat to her belly button. It hurt to crane her neck to see what he was doing so she cautiously rested up on her elbows to look as he untied her smallclothes and set them aside.

"What about you?" she nearly croaked the words out, nerves making her blood pound in her ears. Sansa was glad he'd spared her this in King's Landing, it would have made her afraid the way his focus was pinpointed on her. Oberyn had an easy smile for her in return, though, as he rubbed his palms on her hips. He'd seen her fully naked body twice now--on their wedding night in King's Landing and that afternoon in Bitterbridge--but he didn't now look at her with dull eyes for having seen her. _He hasn't touched me before, perhaps there is the difference._

"I will be naked soon enough for you, worry not," he said, kissing the top of one of her thighs. Something deep in her belly curled as Oberyn put a reverent hand between her legs, touching her with sure fingers. Sansa tried to remember the things she'd been told about her flowered body, the tidbits shared with her by women such as Lady Olenna and Queen Cersei, but when Oberyn re-situated himself to lay on his belly all those thoughts flew from her mind.

He had one arm under Sansa at the small of her back, her right leg resting on his shoulder, while he continued to tease her sex. Only now she could feel his breathing, steady and even for now, on her and the curling in her belly twisted with heat when he leaned in to kiss her. It was the same kiss he would have given her in front of the company, save it was now on lips never meant to be seen by passerby, for it started as just a press against her skin--and Sansa jerked when he darted his tongue out to taste her, lapping and swirling in the folds of her sex. It was a bizarre feeling, but a good one she decided as she whimpered. She could have screamed when he stopped suddenly, his entire body frozen as he looked up into her eyes.

"Have I scared you? Hurt you?" Sansa almost let a laugh loose at his question but saw the serious and earnest look of his gaze. _if I said yes he would clothe me and leave this room in moments,_ Sansa realized and she leaned her weight on one elbow so she could card her fingers through his hair again.

"Neither. I am just unused to the feelings." Her words earned a happy smile and his next kisses had her clutching at his hair and panting out a few faint praises. The room was still cold around them, but it felt good now that her skin flamed from Oberyn's every touch. Briefly she wished Ellaria had stayed instead of sneaking away with a serving girl, but her husband didn't let her think on it very long as he kissed and nipped at her inner thighs.

Sansa watched him lick one of his fingers, sucking in a breath when he eased it into her sex. It was uncomfortable but not unbearably so, or painful. She bit her lips and held her breath when he started pushing and pulling, a curl cricked in it as he pulled it out. A happy smile lit his face and he reminded her to breathe as her hips twitched and tried to follow the rhythm he set. The curling, twisting feeling in her middle increased almost painfully when he added a second finger.

The fact that they'd come in here to dry and rest a little from the road before supper was forgotten as she struggled to keep up with him, small moans and cries emerging from her lips when he put his mouth to her once more. Sansa hoped that in whichever of the seven heavens her mother was she turned her head away as Sansa bit down on a scream as the tight coil in her middle suddenly loosed and left her shaking. Oberyn's fingers stilled, her sex clutching tight against them, and tears threatened to spill down her cheeks despite a relaxed euphoria taking hold of her.

"You are beautiful, coming undone in my care," Oberyn said, his tone as soft as his touch now as he took his hand from her and sat back on the bed, carefully licking up her slick wetness from his fingertips. Sansa, spread out and sated, looked at him through half-lidded eyes and thought that she could fall asleep now and easily not awake until morning if he let her. There was however a curious lump to his smallclothes that hadn't been there before and she found the willpower to sit up and reach for the ties that were keeping him the least bit modest. Her husband for his part sat still, hands yet again at his sides and making no move to grab her up.

As his manhood sprang out Sansa's insides, already quivery from his attentions, turned to water--she would be trapped under him when he joined them, and that was going to be the real test of her courage tonight. So many people had told her for years that she could at any turn be held down and 'properly fucked,' that she was more than a bit frightened of laying skin to skin beneath her husband. She must have gone pale, for Oberyn cupped her cheek with the hand he hadn't had inside her and drew her in for a soft kiss before laying down on his back next to her.

"What are you doing?"

"Making it easier for my wife to bed me, so her nightmares of this moment might ease," he replied, putting one hand on his abdomen and the other extended out towards her to take. Sansa hesitated a few moments, praying that the man she'd known for over two months would be true to his word--that he would let her go should she want him to. Not just tonight, but ever, even after they'd shared a bed. Oberyn Martell had looked on her and hadn't seen the broken doll that the court had--he had straightened her back with the same steely resolve that had kept her standing at all at court, and she now meant to someday avenge her family. None would question a Stark married to a Martell in the matters of revenge.

It was awkward to straddle him, gasping when he slicked himself with her wetness, and she clutched one of his hands tightly as she lowered herself onto him. Once there she let go, supporting herself weakly with her hands pressed flat to his chest, breathing shallowly as her sex twinged and tingled at the invasion, stinging when she moved too much. Oberyn's hands were at her hips, thumbs rubbing in comforting circles as he let her adjust.

"Have you taken many...virgins before?" she asked, trying to keep her mind from her discomfort, unable to meet his eyes and playing with his pendant instead. Oberyn chuckled, drawing one hand up her flank and cupping a breast before taking her chin.

"No, not many. You may well be the last--that is something I can give you easily," he said, letting go of her chin to thread his fingers into her still-damp hair. Sansa took him by surprise when she rolled her hips experimentally and he clutched a handful of hair for a second. Before she could even decide if she liked that or not his palm was on her chest and his other hand hitched her closer. It was all still uncomfortable in some manner, and her legs burned from the strange new exercise required of them, but soon he'd helped her build a rhythm that they both liked and the warmth in her belly grew hot again.

His eyes, dark above his slightly hooked nose, stayed on hers as they moved. The same sort of warm attention that he gave Ellaria was in his eyes as one of his hands reached between their bodies and touched her--at first she batted him away until she realized he meant to bring her to bliss once more before he filled her with his seed. Up until then they'd both been quiet for the most part, but now he groaned her name as they moved and she couldn't contain her own cries as her body wouldn't release the tense knot inside her.

She still felt as taut as a bowstring when he reached completion, holding her as close to himself as he could, and Sansa couldn't keep a few tears from running down her face. She hid them in the crook of his neck, trying to relax against what her body was screaming for. When he sat up against the headboard, keeping their bodies intimately joined as he did so, she clung to his chest and got herself under control. She ached everywhere and the throbbing in her gut told her it might ache less if she could just release it as she had before.

"Tell me if this starts to hurt," Oberyn said, slowly rubbing his thumb on the pearl Sansa had heard of from Lady Margaery and Lady Olenna. He had touched her there earlier to great effect and she hoped it would be the case again, her arms looped around his neck and her forehead resting on his. This would never have been her bedding with someone like Loras Tyrell or Tyrion Lannister--Loras had been enamored of her inheritance and cowed by his family, she saw now, and Tyrion had pitied her too much to be daring with her.

When it did start to hurt it was as her blood was up once more and Sansa begged him to continue rather than be left wanting once again. Her husband watched her with careful eyes as he obeyed her pleas for more. When it finally--finally--finally came to her the shock left her choking for air through the spasms of her belly and legs, and Sansa collapsed against Oberyn. Later, when she got her breath back, she let herself be cocooned in the thickest blankets with Oberyn curled at her back.

Warm and surrounded by the smell of her Dornishman, Sansa let herself drift in a doze. She ought to perhaps ask to wash but cool water would break the spell she was under currently and bring her back to reality.

"Do you want me to ask for moon tea?" Oberyn said, ghosting kisses on her shoulders as he did. Sansa considered it for a long moment--a man who so obviously loved children yet would not force his wife to bear a child must be a rarity in the world, but running a household and raising children had been what Sansa was brought up to do. She'd once, not even three years ago, faced down the possibility of running the Red Keep as her household and bearing a king's children.

"No, we will manage," she finally replied, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. Lady Olenna had told her, during her oh so short marriage to Tyrion, that if she wanted to get with child and be done with it sooner than later she should wait until two days before her blood was to fall. In the headiness of the last ten weeks she'd lost her good accounting of her moonblood, but she knew she ought to see it again any day. Oberyn was not convinced of her words though, pressing for clarity--something that might have annoyed her from Tyrion but comforted her from Oberyn.

"You must take it within a fortnight, Sansa, else it will not work." The Queen had well-educated her on moon tea, but Sansa kept that to herself as she held Oberyn's hand in her own.

"I will ask for it if I change my mind, I promise." She was glad he could not see her face then, for she knew it was determined and set. Oberyn had risked the fragile peace between the Crown and Dorne for both her and his late sister, and given the attitude of the rest of the Dornish host and the Dornishmen she'd met in King's Landing, it was something any good Dornishman would have stood up and fought for at the right provocation. Her child would have a good father, should one grow from this evening together, but it would also be of undeniably Dornish blood.

If she announced in five months or even five years that she wanted the North or the Riverlands for Oberyn Martell's trueborn child, Dorne would see it done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (TommyGinger I miss your reviews!)
> 
> Thank you all for reading, let me know what you thought!


	20. Doran, Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last we are hearing from two highly requested characters...Doran and Jon.

"Arianne is right, Uncle, my father should have returned over a month ago yet you say he's only just begun his journey home--speaking of treasures beyond measure. Has he told you anything else?" Doran motioned for his niece to calm herself and speak slower. He had only barely finished reading his brother's letter himself. Arianne, despite being the future ruling Princess, never opened his correspondence with Oberyn and for that he was glad in this case for she would have jumped to the same conclusions as Obara. Around them the Water Gardens burbled and the nighttime birds were cautiously singing to one another of the coming Winter. Dorne was known to all throughout the Seven Kingdoms as a place of high heat and drier days--and it was, save for the years of Winter that engulfed even Dorne. The rain was said to be a balm to the heat of the Rhoynish blood in many Dornishmen.

The rain had never been a balm to the fire of House Martell, though, even in the harshest years of Winter.

His spies in the Capitol told him interesting stories of his brother of late--ones that were likely true if he went by Oberyn's cryptic letter. There was only relief in him for the news that his brother had survived the king's city. They had discussed Oberyn's promise and before his brother departed Sunspear they had said goodbye for what could have been the last time. Even if what his brother had done was confusing and somewhat alarming, the fact that he would be able to reprimand his brother more than made up for it. Doran hoped that Oberyn's children might understand what the man had done, though, because Doran surely could not.

"Your father the prince keeps his own counsel in this letter, which I think was sent more as a proof of life than to be informative. He says to expect him within the month and this letter was posted from King's Landing more than a week ago--you'll also see mention that he will do his duty and sit as judge for House disputes in Kingsgrave, Skyreach, Sandstone, and Vaith. As for treasures," Doran sighed then, truly lost as to what Oberyn could mean, "knowing my brother, he could have sacked King's Landing and taken the heads of every Wester and Stormlander over the age of six and thirty. Perhaps he shall arrive as King of Westeros, just as solemn Eddard Stark should have done twenty years ago."

Arianne scoffed and reached for the letter which Doran easily gave over to her. Obara crossed her arms and paced. His eldest niece was the most alike in temperament to Oberyn, compassionate and diplomatic when it suited her, fiery and warlike otherwise, and most of all an even head for judgment. Where Doran had perhaps given his children too much in their lives, knowing the fates he had planned for them from infancy, Oberyn had so far taught each of his girls that they were the beloved but bastard children of a beloved but second son. Their time on earth was therefore entirely of their own choosing--being given nothing by birth, they owed nothing in exchange.

It would have been a bet anywhere else than Dorne what eight children might do with that kind of freedom, but so far all of Oberyn's elder girls had chosen House Martell and ultimately Dorne itself. He shivered at the thought of what they might have done if Oberyn had perished in King's Landing--it would have been easy for Arianne and her brothers to also be swept up in the maelstrom created by the Sand Snakes, and Doran would have been nearly powerless to stop it.

Remembering his younger brother's laughing face of nearly four months ago, Doran wasn't sure he would have even tried to stop it. The simmering rage of decades didn't often risk boiling over inside him, but his brother's death might have been his undoing.

"Obara, I need you to remain here with Arianne and I for now but I do wish for you to send Nymeria and Tyene to Hellholt. Tell them to meet your father there and accompany him home--I shall send a raven to House Uller to let them know to expect additional guests. I have a feeling that one of your father's 'priceless treasures' is in all likelihood another child of Ellaria's." Obara nodded, obviously glad for an occupation, and left the room.

"And if Ellaria is not with child and Uncle Oberyn does not stop at Hellholt, then what shall Nymeria and Tyene do?" He smiled up at Arianne and shrugged.

"If my other guess is correct, and I unfortunately think that it is, the eldest three will have severe words for their father that his retinue best avoid hearing. Let him be on his own ground when their rage breaks like thunder over the mountains."

Doran would keep Oberyn's secret until the man was ready to reveal it, but it did send a rare thrill through him to have a new opening in the game. The Targaryen children had not been a good gamble, though he would keep his hand in that pot, but Oberyn's gamble could certainly speed things up.

"Father I am not entirely sure that Uncle Oberyn means to keep secrets from his children. Perhaps he means to have them help carry all those skulls into your hall in Sunspear and you sending them away to Hellholt will spoil his surprise."

He considered his daughter's words for a long moment, digesting them against everything he knew of his brother. Oberyn might not bring actual skulls with him to Sunspear, but he would bring about that long hoped for weather change. If Nymeria and Tyene found what Doran suspected they would find, the arrival of Oberyn Martell to Sunspear would be momentous.

"We shall see, daughter. We shall see."

 

* * *

 

Jon couldn't picture what Sansa might look like these days. She was five and ten and a woman flowered, that much he knew, and he remembered well enough what her mother looked like--but there had been something of Father in her too, and he didn't know how that might play in her face as she grew into maturity. Robb had begun to favor Lady Catelyn as he grew into a man while Jon had looked graver and graver until strangers mistook him for the trueborn son of Eddard Stark if they caught him alone.

He learned of his half-sister's new marriage just weeks after making peace that she'd been kidnapped well and fully by House Lannister. If it had been in him to weep for the often-cruel girl he shared a father with, Jon would have wept for her then. No matter her behavior towards him when she was little more than a child, after losing everyone she deserved better than Westerlander deceit and violence.

Now that she was by all accounts headed to Dorne he wondered if that was going to be better or worse than being Lady of Casterly Rock. She'd married a man who was nearly Father's age, though not past his fortieth year, and Jon heard murmurings from men who'd come from the Reach and the Stormlands that Oberyn Martell was as dangerous as a snake, whose blood ran as hot as fire, and who stood for and defended his dozen bastard daughters. To Jon this only sounded like Oberyn Martell might have made a fine wildling and perhaps could make a fine husband for Sansa--though Jon did wonder with a rueful smirk how she would manage becoming Lady Mother to so many bastard children.

Sam was the one who suggested trying to mend the gap between them--making fair points that Sansa had been little more than a girl the last time Jon had seen her and that of the two of them she had endured seeing Ned Stark's head chopped off. Besides, they might all be dead soon and did Jon truly wish to meet his multitude of Old Gods without attempting to reconcile with the only family he had left? Jon had been kind to his friend then and not asked the same for he knew that his father had never accused him of cowardice or threatened to kill him over it.

Ygritte would have had a fine laugh at Sansa's ladylike ways, as would Gilly--each of them knowing how to survive in their world easily and finding little about life south of the Wall worth the effort. The Sansa Jon had known would have been horrified, and it was with this in mind that Jon painstakingly wrote a letter to Sunspear. They each had so little left--Father was dead, Lady Catelyn and Robb had been murdered, Bran was North of the Wall, and Rickon and Arya were both missing and possibly dead.

"You know my grandmother was a Martell, Jon Snow," Maester Aemon said as he helped Jon select a raven. They took a risk and used one bound for Highgarden, writing instructions to send the letter on to Sunspear. It still shocked Jon sometimes that goodly, blind Maester Aemon was the last Targaryen--and it made Jon feel a little less alone as news of his family's deaths trickled in week by week it seemed.

"I did not, Maester," he dutifully replied, testing the hold of the knot on the raven's leg.

"Yes, Queen Myriah Targaryen of House Nymeros Martell. She told my father, Maekar, to love in wisdom. My mother, Sosan of House Rowan, was even tempered and wise and Father grew to love her dearly. She, and us his children, brought him the few joys he ever knew. He was never meant to be king and save that the crown would have gone to my eldest and most foolish brother he accepted his responsibility."

"My sister's mother allowed her to go the Capitol to be Queen," Jon began, watching as the raven took flight, "I suppose it is better for her to leave as a Princess with her head intact."

"Dorne will dry your sister's tears, Jon Snow, but it will also harden her heart against those who did her harm. The world might call her Princess, but I have always associated Dorne with those of a Queenly bent."

Jon swallowed and hoped that were true. All of it. He was bound here to the Wall, he could not save her any more than her fanciful stories could. If Dorne could do for her everything she'd ever been promised by her dead mother he would consider the Gods kind. They certainly hadn't been of late.


	21. Ellaria, Oberyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm glad you all enjoyed Jon & Doran's turn at POV time! We are back to the San/Ell/Ob show...!

After robing herself in one of Oberyn's long tunics and belting the blood red garment high under her breasts Ellaria grinned to herself all the way down the hallway to where drinks were being poured in celebration of Oberyn's marriage. A hearty cry went up when they caught sight of Ellaria and the serving girl on her arm. She gave her most elaborate curtsy and gestured for a cup of wine, winding the girl in for a kiss. They had all seen the utterly enamored looks Oberyn was giving to Sansa, and the returning blushes he received, and it wasn't surprising to anyone that the Prince would want to be alone with the young woman he'd married.

"Ellaria, you'll tell us what Prince Oberyn brought, won't you?"

She shook her head, miming sewing her lips shut with a single elaborate stitch. Oberyn would reveal his macabre prize when he and Sansa returned, and until then Ellaria planned on joining the revelry of her countrymen. They'd all made it back to Dorne alive, and that was certainly something to celebrate given the leader of their foray into the king's city.

The one thing she wished was that she had stayed. The lovely young woman was responsive and warm, the tension and stresses of her years in King's Landing melting away under Ellaria and Oberyn's care. It was best for Sansa to only worry about one lover at a time for now, until she'd found her feet in Dorne. They would have some nights together in the future though, of that Ellaria was certain. Long fascinating nights where they got to know everything about one another.

Sansa was a little skinnier than Ellaria herself generally preferred--she liked women whose breasts were full and soft, wide hips that she could span her hands on. Oberyn took anything his lovers came with--he loved equally the bodies of men and women of many ages, their ribs showing when they stretched for him or the sway of child-fattened thighs, Oberyn found much to love in the human form.

"I must beg all of your leave, my lords and ladies, for we cannot sup without our Prince and Princess," Ellaria announced, tearing herself from a rather lovely cuddle with one of the ladies from Kingsgrave. They knew that she was alike to their flamboyant and extroverted Prince, they knew that was why out of all of his women she had caught his attention. Smirking at the grins that split everyone's faces, she also knew that his reasons for marrying Sansa Stark were becoming clear.

A lovely woman was she but there was also a steel in her that Oberyn was slowly polishing to a high gloss. The Dornish were the product of a marriage between the Andals and the Rhoynar--steel was in their blood, hot and pure.

She listened at the door for a moment and then entered without knocking. Oberyn was whispering in Sansa's ear, stroking her shoulder between his dirty words. He glanced up at Ellaria, his smile sated like a cat's, and his hand snaked under the covers and in a moment Sansa gasped gently and shivered. Ellaria grinned, sauntering up to the bed to sit next to them. There was a high flush to the younger woman's face and a few tendrils of hair had dried on her forehead.

"You must dress, my loves," she said, running the back of one finger against Sansa's cheek.

"You will not join us?" Oberyn pouted, shifting closer to Sansa who twitched at this. Ellaria shook her head, putting a hand on Oberyn's shoulder and giving him a shake. He was the biggest laze after a good time between a woman's legs and this time was no different. His little wife certainly looked like she'd been treated properly, something Ellaria was certain she deserved after so much mishandling and maltreatment.

"There is still supper to be had, Oberyn," Sansa said, letting Oberyn kiss behind her ear before pulling herself away from him and sitting up. The dear woman managed to leave the arms of Oberyn Martell without making it seem hurried or a slight--it was a talent Ellaria might have envied, were she not free to her own life because of her bastard birth.

"I need to--um--" Sansa started, the red on her cheeks now from embarrassment rather than pleasure. Ellaria retrieved a washing cloth and wetted it for her lover's wife. Oberyn just watched them through half-lidded eyes, curled up still in the sheets he'd been left in. She flicked water at him for staring and helped Sansa as she would let her. Oberyn heaved a sigh, rolling to his back and closing his eyes.

Their trunks had been delivered first thing, before they'd even come to this chamber, and Ellaria helped Sansa into what was the first truly Dornish thing she'd gotten her to wear since the wedding. The corsets of King's Landing were soon to disappear from Sansa's life in favor of the breast binding wraps of Dornish women. Ellaria didn't mind giving her own wraps over to Sansa, for her own bosom would soon grow heavy as the babe grew and they would no longer fit.

A gray silk gown, little more than a shift to Sansa's eyes, followed the binding. The gray was dyed so delicately that it almost glowed silver in the light of the torches, bringing out dark hues in Sansa's hair that changed it from bright red to something alive like fire.

"Beautiful," she said once the gown was properly belted.

"You think?" There was no looking glass here-- such a luxury would never make it to a terribly bleak place as Starktear--so Sansa had trouble looking at herself, turning in a circle and smoothing the skirts out so they shimmered in the light.

"Beautiful," Oberyn agreed, one eye cracked open to watch them. Ellaria dipped her fingers in the water basin and only missed flicking water on him again because he shot up from the bed and put his arms around both herself and Sansa. His grin was infectious as he held them tightly, kissing each of them before going for Ellaria's hastily donned tunic. Utterly stripped, Ellaria swatted him and quickly dressed herself in bright orange and gold.

Together, Sansa dressed in silver, Ellaria in orange, and Oberyn in red, they made their way to the small feast that the Manwoody men had put together for their company.

 

* * *

 

Oberyn could have gotten lost in Sansa until the early morning hours. She was soft and lovely, and he would father a half dozen children on her if she'd let him--which she just might, he thought as he looked on her. She'd declined his offer of fetching her the preventative tea, surprising him greatly given the threat the Lannisters had hung high above her head not so long ago. To give a husband a child, in the rest of Westeros, was to be irrevocably bound to him and Sansa was willing to risk that. There in his arms he saw the same young woman who had kissed him in the garden when he offered her escape--she would in time prove as dangerous as himself or Ellaria if she wasn't already.

Her skin, so far preserved as her natural porcelain but surely for not much longer, shone gold where the torchlight fell on her shoulders and abdomen as they walked into the small eating hall. He'd never wanted a wife--Ellaria had been wifely enough for him, and the nobility surrounding him had never turned their noses at her or his children--but Sansa would certainly make a fine wife and a finer mother. The idea of seeing a future with her included sent a rare thrill up his spine, one that was nearly identical to the ones that Ellaria inspired.

"My friends," he called, quieting the room a little, "let me properly present myself to you now. You all know Ellaria Sand, and let me properly introduce my wife, Sansa."

A chorus of welcomes greeted this and Sansa gracefully sank into a curtsy in response. He held her right hand aloft, keeping Ellaria's left in an easy grip as he did so. His company had already been at the wine and they were full of smiles as he drew his lovers into the fray of the celebration and he decided Sansa would be alright as long as he let her break his fingers. He remembered her at the party before Bitterbridge--her terror--and forgave the steely grip she had on him.

"How did she seduce you into marriage, Prince?" He hesitated, smile fading just a moment before Sansa lifted her lips in her own warm smile.

"He rescued me, if you must know." Oberyn's smile died for it had no place in such a serious conversation. Sansa could share what she may, for it was her story to tell. He had only part of it. The loudness of revelment quieted as their new Princess spoke, her words bent backwards with a Northron accent.

"They'd married me to--to--the Imp, Tyrion Lannister. I was to bear his children, raise them up to sit on my father's seat. My only luck was my age and Lord Tyrion's preference for whores--he did not take me for his own. Prince Oberyn, well, it was a whirlwind. I was so unhappy I'm afraid I threw myself at him for just a scrap of actual affection. I woke up one morning Sansa Lannister and then by evenfall I was Sansa Martell." By now the room was quiet, at first roiling with upset as she spoke of her mistreatment but soon relaxing as they realized that the young woman before them considered it part of her past.

"We trust you are happier now, Princess?" Ser Dagos asked, breaking the silence that had settled on those gathered. Sansa's smile was genuine, wide and open on her face. Oberyn decided he would try to give her reasons to put laugh lines on her face before he died. She had too lovely a face not to laugh and smile.

"I am, Ser Dagos. I am quite content now--with Ellaria and Prince Oberyn. I am as happy as my Lord Father hoped and my Lady Mother wanted," she laughed gently at that, "though I am sure neither of them dreamed up a Dornish Prince. Now enough of sad things, I was coaxed out of bed with promises of hot food and wine." Though her fingers stayed glued to his own he could feel the blood rush into the fingertips once again as she relaxed her grip. Someday she would walk freely in a group without fear of being accosted by those entrusted with her safety--he hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo how did we like it?


	22. Sansa

It felt a little strange to walk amongst the company after stealing away and consummating her marriage--though they didn't know that that was the case, for everyone here believed it to have been finalized back in King's Landing more than two months ago. She tried to remain relaxed as the sound of celebration echoed in the room, staying always at Oberyn or Ellaria's side. Sansa might have been more at ease if she'd been wearing her usual corset and overdress, but had wanted to appear like a Dornish lady. The heat of the room might have been unbearable if she'd been in any more clothing than Ellaria had put her in, so despite her unease she was glad for the other comfort her clothing provided.

The meal was served up soon after they entered the room, with Oberyn leading them to sit below the high table for the Manwoody cousin whose minor seat was here at Starktear. He laughed away suggestions that they take the lord's table and forced the Manwoody knight to stay put. Sansa relied on watching Oberyn and Ellaria's etiquette as each plate was served, learning how to eat some of the Dornish foods that she'd not seen before. This meal was the first where she saw cold spiced milk along with the losennta, though she quickly understood the reason because many of the foods burned her mouth. Though she was certain that no one would fault her for any missteps, Sansa did not want to embarrass Oberyn--even as Ser Deziel threw a handful of nuts at Ser Prestan for a comment about how Deziel sat a horse like he was a horse himself. Given their behavior she wasn't sure that embarrassment was something Oberyn was too worried about, but it didn't hurt to try.

When the dancing broke out she let Oberyn guide her, smiling with him because his happiness was infectious. He was not the sort of golden prince out of a song, but he certainly was the daring sort of man songs might be written for. She would find out if there were--and perhaps for his nameday she would compose a song for him, depending on when his next nameday fell. When he handed her off to Ellaria she was relieved--Ellaria's movements were more formal and easier to read than Oberyn's easy but powerful footwork.

When Ellaria retired to their room, Oberyn took Sansa's hand and led her up several staircases to the roof of the compound. The rains had moved on, leaving the air smelling crisp and new, puddles here and there even on the roof glistening pans of white under the moon. The feasting and dancing below them was silenced by the stairwells and by the awe she felt as she looked up at the sky. It was alive with stars above them and below the stars at the top of the ridge a ring of torches surrounded eight cairns.

"Your father buried eight men here twenty years ago, Sansa," Oberyn said softly, seeing the direction of her gaze. These cairns were the reason the Dornish called this place Starktear, and though it was morbid she wanted to know why. He pointed at the stone mounds and murmured the eight names--five men of the North who had come with her father and three loyal Kingsguard who were all dead for the life of Lyanna Stark.

A thought wriggled in the back of her mind about the order of the Kingsguard--their rules, their holy vows, their steadfastness in their duties--but Sansa consciously put it away. It was something she'd heard Tyrion muttering about after the Hound saved her from bread rioters the day that Princess Myrcella sailed for Dorne.

"My aunt died here. They always told me that Dorne resented her, and us." Oberyn's face sobered at her words, mentally composing an answer that wouldn't upset their balance. Sansa was grateful for his consideration, taking a moment to say a prayer for the dead as the silence stretched. This was a place of much loss, and it felt cleansing to be here while the echoes of her family's deaths reverberated in her heart of hearts.

"Many marriages in Dorne resemble what we have, my love. _Many_. Although because of the differences of culture outside of our borders we do expect a certain...discretion exercised if we send one of our women beyond Dorne. We expect her to be given high honor and respect, the letter and spirit of marital custom and law followed exactly."

"So what Prince Rhaegar did was unconscionable," she replied, feeling a little cold at the implications of that line of reasoning. Oberyn put his arm around her, though, and she leaned her head on his shoulder. At times her heart hurt from the heavy things that she learned about life around her through her new husband and his countrymen.

"It was not right, though he did bring Lady Lyanna to Dorne to try to make amends. He knew he dishonored my sister but he wanted his lady love to be safe despite it. My brother regrets that Prince Rhaegar did not feel comfortable bringing your aunt to Sunspear or even Sandstone. Had he done that she might have survived. The Qorgyles treated me well when I was a boy."

Sansa stared up at the cairns, thinking of her sad, dead father. He had been her father Ned, but had died Eddard before her eyes and he had been Eddard here too. This was a place of great grief for him and this was the first she'd been told of anything pertaining to it, entrusted to understand the sorrows of decades past.

"Then what does the rest of Dorne think?" She left unvoiced the question _What do they think of me? The niece of that woman who triggered such sorrowful events across the realm?_ She tried also not to think of Arya, who had been compared so favorably to Lady Lyanna, and how she would never see her sister again. She would teach her children--and Oberyn's if they would let her--to be kind in words and deeds to one's family. If Sansa could ask the Gods one thing it would be for kind words for Arya, Bran, Rickon--Mother, Father, and even Jon Snow. She did not want her children to learn her hard lessons, not when she could prevent it.

"We Dornish think many things, Sansa," Oberyn finally said, "but we understand, most of all. We understand that no one save your father and one other man knew-- _truly_ \--what happened here, and then not even fully. Lady Lyanna did not kill my sister, your father did not kill my sister, and you did not kill my sister. The Dornish know, and we remember."

The warm air, humid still from the rain, drifted and twitched with night breezes and Sansa shivered--not used to the touch of wind on her back or her belly in the least. There was something out here in the night with them too, something that watched them with sad eyes--sad eyes that reminded her vaguely of her father's worried gazes in the months before his death. With the sadness there was also a feeling of impotent anger, and it made Sansa wary.

Oberyn remained silent, his arm slung low on her hips as he drifted into his own memories and his eyes were far away when she hesitantly mentioned the feeling that someone was out here with them besides the night watchmen posted on an overlook of the valley. His words were measured, soft, when he answered.

"Some say that is your aunt, Lyanna, come to give trespassers dreams of fire and blood and harshest winter. I've never had such nightmares but Ellaria claims to have--and Ser Myles, though he is loath to admit the night he ran screaming from his bed to the cairns. Ser Dagos says his brother prayed the rest of the night to the Seven to bring peace to the spirits who wander here." Sansa swallowed hard and looked out into the darkness, the ruddy hills of the Dornish North painted with streaks of silver moonlight. Oberyn saw her alarm and hugged her tighter to his side, calling out to the ominous darkness.

"Lady Stark, Sansa is your blood--your brother's child become a woman and a wife. She has been tormented enough."

The feeling of eyes on them relaxed and receded but did not cease entirely. Oberyn stood tall against whatever presence watched them and Sansa tried to stand that tall as well. She was Oberyn Martell's wife and that meant she was allowed to love tenderly, nurse anger, and withstand fear. Her aunt's restive ghost would not harm or scare her for she would no longer allow herself to be.

Sansa Martell would die before falling victim ever again, she decided as Oberyn led her back inside to their chamber. Ellaria barely woke up enough to make room in the bed for them, but they managed. She watched through affectionate, sleepy eyes as Oberyn coaxed sighs and kisses from Sansa until they were each too exhausted to continue and fell asleep tangled as they'd laid on the bed and it was to a kiss on her shoulder and one on her neck that Sansa awoke a few minutes after dawn.

Oberyn's words of the previous night had worked--her dreams had been of dancing and children whose eyes were Tully blue but with the gritty harshness of sand and citrus in their gaze. Certainly no fire, blood, or deep winter and for this Sansa was glad. She'd seen quite enough of the first two and the thought of snow brought tears of remembrance close to her eyes--she said a small prayer of thanks to the Seven for granting Lady Lyanna peace, and a small thanks to Lyanna for abiding by that peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your feedback on the last chapter, let me know what you thought of this one!


	23. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a behemoth and I'm sorry? Also so many apologies for the long wait for the update!!

They stayed abed until Tevira led a few servants in with an empty washtub and several large jugs of clean water. A hushed word from Oberyn had them scurrying out for a half hour for hot water. Sansa's middle ached as she sat up but not incredibly as she and Ellaria watched Oberyn do some stretches and kicks as they'd waited for the hot water. Sansa tried to watch only through her eyelashes as Ellaria rested her chin on Sansa's shoulder, teasing the man as he worked and sweated. Sansa was starting to feel that perhaps she could have spared the kitchens the trouble of heating water and that she might have actually preferred cold water in light of the feverish blush that overtook her.

"Sansa we will reach Kingsgave by nightfall hopefully--if you allow Ellaria to ride with you on Dawn or continue riding with me. Whichever you prefer," Oberyn said as he dropped to the floor supported by his palms and the balls of his feet, steadily bending and unbending his arms. Sansa managed to stop herself from gawking at the way his muscles moved across his back long enough to ask:

"Ellaria will not ride with Ser Prestan?"

"Gods no," Ellaria laughed, stroking a hand down Sansa's arm and taking her fingers, flicking her nails against Sansa's, "he thinks too much of his cock and little enough of my pearl. Once you've had Oberyn Martell you're never quite the same woman. He makes you realize all the things your lovers should have been. Poor Ser Prestan never stood a chance."

When the servants finally returned with the hot water Oberyn stood and urged Sansa up from the bed and helped to tip water over her head as she stood in the tub, while Ellaria worked the soap into Sansa's hair and combed it out under the water. She was certain her entire body flamed red with a blush, embarrassment winning over mortification.

"Prince Oberyn, Ser Steffon wonders if your family will breakfast with he and his wife this morning," a servant called from the other side of their door right as Ellaria helped Sansa wrap herself in a clean sheet. Oberyn was whispering praises of both her own and his paramour's beauty this early in the morning, nuzzling a kiss to Sansa's cheek before nudging her towards the door. Sansa was confused at first but then realized she was the most decent out of the three of them as she stood in her dampening sheet--so it fell to her to answer the door.

Her fingers tried to shake as she opened the chamber door so Sansa took a deep breath before swinging it open and told herself she was Sansa Martell and unafraid. As the door creaked open the young servant--a handsome youth in a spotty kind of way with hair the color of polished oak--Sansa willed herself to stand as confidently as she often saw Oberyn and Ellaria do. The feeling was like her spine was made of steel and amazingly she felt her blush recede as the servant stared.

"My husband the Prince would be pleased to join Ser Steffon for breakfast. We wil join him as soon as we are dressed for the day." Sansa was well aware of how she looked--her hair darker than heart's blood when wet, her shoulders damp and milk-pale compared to the Dornish complexions she was getting used to seeing and it was obvious too that she was bare beneath the sheet wrapped around her slight form. The servant flushed but managed to stop staring, bobbing his acknowledgement with a hurried _yes of course Princess I will inform S-Ser St-Steffon immediately_.

"If only it weren't the height of rudeness to have left before dawn," Ellaria said with a feigned sigh as she wrung out her hair--quite long when water stretched out the curls--and swatting Oberyn's hand away from her belly when he tried to caress her. She swatted him again for his pout and Sansa couldn't help but laugh.

"You, my prince, should see to your bath!"

Leaving Oberyn to fend for himself, Sansa and Ellaria dressed. Ellaria in her favorite dusky saffron gown and thin leather belt and Sansa in a peach gown that made her pale skin glow a healthy pink. They stole one of Oberyn's wide-backed belts and the excess leather tail of the belt swung nearly halfway down her shins. After years of wearing gowns and dresses copied from Queen Cersei, it made Sansa feel a little wild. Perhaps Shae, carefree and protective and sensuous Shae, would have been proud of Sansa. Looking down at herself and glancing at Ellaria she certainly hoped so.

The oddly formal way Oberyn walke with them was explained to her finally--Sansa's right hand held gently by her fingers at waist level or higher, Oberyn's thumb on the back of her fingers to keep them steady, while Ellaria's left hand was held with fingers entwined--as Dornish custom to illustrate the family dynamic without tediously explaining it over and over again. A wife's hand was always held as a lady's might be while a lover's was held intimately and tenderly.

Given the fact that in King's Landing Sansa had been unable to shake the feeling that Tyrion had loved another--secretly of course--she found she deeply appreciated the raw honesty among the Dornish. It would have made her poor mother cringe, Queen Cersei sneer at the idea being savage, and Margaery titter as though it were gossip and delicious scandal. For Sansa though, as she let Oberyn help her into her seat after he helped Ellaria, it was reality and she was glad that none would feel pity for her when she walked into a room with her husband's lover. If she didn't make peace and share affection with Ellaria Sand then she would be forced to line her heart and words with broken glass and barbs as Mother had.

Looking to her right at Oberyn she felt a bubble of unease. He was the father of eight, soon to be nine, bastards. Unlike her father, who wanted a surface of peace in his family, Oberyn would not tolerate any behavior like her mother's behavior towards Jon. Sansa knew this instinctively and she prayed, returning her husband's smile with one of her own, that she would be able to meet his expectations in regards to his bastard daughters. Her thoughts were scattered when Ser Steffon Manwoody, Lord of Starktear, spoke up in a jovial tone.

"Before you leave us, Prince, you must show us your prize. My cousins tell me only rumors and lies about your adventures in King's Landing. In truth the only thing I know is real is the loveliness of your wife!"

Oberyn laughed, pausing from pecking at his breakfast--he'd been feeding Sansa and Ellaria the best morsels, allowing no doubt in anyone's mind about his loyalties as a lover--and giving his attention to Ser Steffon. As he opened his mouth with a wide smile to speak of Gregor Clegane's head Sansa's mind compelled her to recall, unbidden, the day of her father's beheading--her cheer dried up in seconds and she felt quite ill. Joffrey had grinned like a madman--how mad they didn't yet know--and laughed, parading not only Father's head but the heads of at least a dozen other Northmen put to the sword at the king's orders.

Sansa clutched a hand up to her mouth, fighting the urge to wretch up her breakfast and yesterday's supper. Her husband's laugh died in his mouth as he instantly lay a gentle hand on her shoulder. Sansa managed to swallow back the bile she'd almost emptied her stomach of, her eyes watering as it burned her throat like hot glass shards.

"You look pale as a ghost my love," Oberyn murmured, snapping a finger for a servant to pour her a fresh goblet of water. Ellaria watched them, her eyes serious and concerned as Sansa gingerly choked down a few mouthfuls of cool water. Once she felt she wouldn't let any tears fall she leaned close to Oberyn.

"Please do not," she took a calming breath past another roil in her stomach, "please do not make me look at it my prince," she whispered finally and a stricken look crossed Oberyn's face. He wrapped her hand in his beneath the table and addressed the rest of those gathered without glancing away from her--the room was nearly silent as he spoke.

"My wife's stomach is delicate at present, so I fear a grand presentation is out of the question. After breakfast, perhaps, in the armory my lord?" The awkward pause faded, leaving Sansa jarred and confused at the lingering images from the day her father died. He had been a good man, unlike Gregor Clegane who had been a monster. Eventually the conversation rose again with mirth but she found her appetite quite gone. Ellaria's firm hold on her waist was surely the only reason she managed to return to their room safely. The short walk was certainly unremembered by Sansa at any rate. The Dornishwoman didn't ask or demand an explanation for Sansa's behavior--and shook her head in a negative when Sansa asked if it might have been the onset of a mother's stomach.

"No dear one, though it shared the same face it was not the man. If you have his child in you your body won't tell you for at least a fortnight, and only after you've missed your bleeding."

Sansa nodded, the back of her throat still sore from the bile. Her mother had always had very little sickness from her babes, Maester Luwin had told Arya and herself before they left for the Capitol and so perhaps she might only experience a mild sickness if she conceived. Ellaria might also have some tricks for this was to be her fifth child. A girl most likely and Sansa's heart beat loud at the thought that the child's name might be her own--Sansa Sand, ninth bastard daughter of Oberyn Martell.

"Tevira and the other girls will take care of all this. Let us visit the cairns before we leave for Kingsgrave," Ellaria huffed, dropping her packing efforts to take Sansa's arm and link their elbows together. The roof of the compound seemed to grow from the mountainside now that she could see it properly in daylight, and she also discerned a worn path up to the ridge where the cairns stood against the hot blue sky of early morning. Seven small shrines lined the path, one shrine for each of the seven faces of the God.

"Ser Arthur Dayne and Lady Lyanna Stark do not have shrines of their own," Ellaria murmured as they walked up the hill, stopping so Sansa could say a prayer at each small statue. Sansa did not ask why her companion did not pray, having learned the hard way from Queen Cersei that religious acts were private affairs. Besides--her own father hadn't followed the Seven, Ellaria wasn't required to any more than he had been. It did make her wonder what Ellaria thought of the Gods--did she not believe in them, as Queen Cersei and Tyrion hadn't? Questions for another time, Sansa decided.

"Is that why Lady Lyanna haunts here?"

"Perhaps," Ellaria conceded, "I rather think it is the violence of her death, and she tries to keep us here by giving us terrors and horrors by night. She and Ser Arthur are not muzzled by the Gods and so work against us Dornishmen leaving our homeland for colder climes," she concluded as they walked by the first cairn, and she flicked a glance at Sansa as they walked.

"Life is harsh outside of Dorne, and these spirits know it more than most."

Sansa nodded, feeling a strange chill creep up her spine despite the growing heat of the air around them.

As they walked back down the ridge from the cemetery her father had built, Sansa quietly told Ellaria that she could ride with Oberyn, remembering the conversation of the morning. Oberyn had been focusing on Sansa, which she was deeply grateful for, but she was nearly a stranger compared to Ellaria who he was devoted to.

Her companion laughed, holding her close as they went into the compound.

"I mean to share a horse with _you_ my love. Oberyn has had his share of you since we left King's Landing. Unless," her glance indicated her hesitance, her caution, "that is something you are not interested in exploring any longer."

The afternoon before they'd left King's Landing seemed a world away though it was in truth just under a month ago. Sansa looked up at Ellaria's face as the older woman focused on some invisible point ahead of where they walked. Oberyn had showed her the night before that things she'd been taught as painful could be merely uncomfortable to learn but pleasing to practice. Ellaria had been the first person to hold her as a lover might--as she wished she'd be held since she was a very young girl still spoonfed pretty fancies in songs and tales of brave knights. Oberyn was something of his own fashioning but Ellaria was steadfast compared to him--her words and temperament predictable, the battles she fought were right and just. If finding Oberyn's hard Southron edges to be Northron in sharpness, Sansa now found a noble knight in the passionate and loyal bastard Ellaria Sand.

"It will be good to have someone more experienced at mountain riding with me," she finally said, the answer settling easily in her heart. Lady Catelyn would have gone gray at the thought of turning Jon Snow's mother into a lover of her own but, as Ellaria grinned, Sansa's mother had not seen or lived through what Sansa already had at five and ten.

"Oberyn will be able to easier slip away to review the cases the Manwoodys have for him, too," Sansa added, hesitant and unsure if it was right to suggest spending time alone with Ellaria in Kingsgrave. As an actual town it might perhaps have different mores to those of the assembled party. Despite Oberyn's words that her marriage to him--and his keeping a lover--was the norm in Dorne she didn't yet feel safe in that knowledge.

Ellaria's expression turned gleeful, though, and her smile was wide and white in her dark face.

"He shall indeed my love. What _shall_ we do to entertain ourselves?" A part of Sansa wished to see her husband as he performed the duties of a great lord--people had always brought their cases and suits to Winterfell for her father's review because if the sitting Lord Stark traveled he would never sleep at Winterfell over the span of a year. Dorne was small enough to allow personal visits each year by either Oberyn or Prince Doran. Given Prince Doran's health it was usually a visit by Oberyn and his niece Princess Arianne as she learned her duties as the ruling Princess.

The other part of her, the one that had seen her father's death and still mourned her mother, wanted away from dealings of justice. For now at least.

"I think we will manage to find _something,_ Ellaria."

Ellaria and Oberyn both affectionately called her "my love," and Sansa believed them for the most part. She even believed that someday she would call them the same--but not yet, at least not today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do we like it? Enough Ellaria/Sansa for everyone?


	24. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kingsgrave! Yay! Hellholt next...I think!

She was announced and gasped over as Princess Sansa, lady wife of Prince Oberyn, when they came to the great gates of Kingsgrave. It was the largest town in the Dornish North and well fortified too. Unlike Winterfell, which had steadfastly weathered more than a thousand years of wars and conquests until Robb had abandoned it to let Bran and Rickon die there, she learned from Ellaria that Kingsgrave had been nearly leveled several times before Dorne had been ushered into the realm more than a century before. Those in Highgarden and Storm's End coveted the few passes through the Dornish North--the Tyrells and their bannermen seeking ports in both the Sunset Sea and the Sea of Dorne, while the Baratheons had sought to choke Dornish trade routes with the rest of Westeros.

"History paints us foolish for clinging to our Northron passes as we have, fingers cut to the bone as wars raged around us, but I do not agree," Ellaria said, ably guiding Dawn behind and to the right of Oberyn's Caerul as they turned from simple riders in the twilight to a lordly procession towards Kingsgrave Keep. The Manwoody brothers, Ser Dagos and Ser Myles, rode just behind Caerul and Dawn.

"We keep them to keep the fear of the Gods in the hearts of evil men," Ellaria continued sofly, "Dorne can march at any time, the men and women with the words of the Martells in their hearts. Control of these mountain passes has been our survival, and no cost can be too high."

"I understand," Sansa said, looking around at the bowing and curtsying as the host processed through the streets, "it is how they speak of the Wall in the North. My half-brother, Jon, is at the Wall. It is as miserable a place as King's Landing, I've been told, but without the Wall there would be unending war all the way to the Neck." Ellaria nodded, resting her chin on Sansa's shoulder. It was pleasant to have the older woman's warmth at her back for her wet clothing stuck to her clammy skin. They were not alone in their discomfort--the entire company was uncomfortable for it had rained on them again an hour or so from the gates of the town and the wind was brisk on this side of the mountains as dark neared.

"Can you see the Sea of Dorne from here?"

"On exceptionally clear days and only in Summer, I'm afraid. Dornish Winters are depressingly gray for our tastes. It is why we are labeled plotters and poisoners because Winters are rarely severe enough to confine us to our keeps for years on end. The truly terrible storms from the Sea of Dorne always seem to swing north to the Stormlands, and we get only gentle rain."

The people of Kingsgrave, fairer than most of the Dornishmen who accompanied Oberyn but still darker than those of the Reach or the Stormlands, flocked the sides of the streets, their murmurs excited as they caught sight of Oberyn. Her husband had removed his cowl and sat straight-backed as he led them through the city. Sansa had never thought him more imposing than he appeared now, eyes shadowed as the sunset faded from orange and red to purple and blue.

The man ahead of them was in effect the Prince Regent of Dorne, that much Sansa had figured out on her own. Her goodbrother, Prince Doran, trusted Oberyn utterly despite the difference in the heat of their blood. Sansa thought she might like to spend an afternoon getting to know her goodbrother for he would have, hopefully, the even sort of head that her father had always had. It was only after she'd lost her father that she appreciated his cool intellect and that he rarely moved hastily or without thought--her goodbrother was a few years older than Father would be now had he gone to the Wall instead of the executioner's block, and so Prince Doran had seen the same ravages of war that Lord Eddard had.

He could provide insights into the horrors she herself had seen, horrors her father had never imagined her living through--and so had never prepared her for.

"Will you tell me of your daughters tonight?"

"I could tell you of them now, should you wish it." Sansa shook her head for she did not want to be distracted, plucking her cowl and cloak a little closer to her face as the streets narrowed before they reached the walls of the keep. She'd gotten quite enough of a reception at the town gates, she did not particularly wish to draw attention to herself before she absolutely had to. The last times she'd been in such a procession through crowds of smallfolk had been too different to properly judge this evening based upon memory.

During the bread riot she had been abandoned by Joffrey and the Kingsguard, saved by the Hound moments before she'd nearly been raped--and the other time was when she'd walked from the Sept of Baelor to the Red Keep on Oberyn's arm in only a shift and cloak. Those lining the streets of Kingsgrave were alike to the crowds present on her wedding day but appearances could be deceiving. She hoped to enter the keep without incident or too much notice.

Her hope wasn't one to be answered.

"Who asks entrance to Kingsgrave?" the portcullis was closed when their horses reached the gates--though the sun had just touched the horizon, a border holdfast such as this was no stranger to precautions meaning the difference between life and death.

"Prince Oberyn Martell of Sunspear, with my wife Sansa, my paramour Ellaria, and the host which returns from King's Landing. Your sworn lord Ser Dagos Manwoody invited us!" At the last sentence Oberyn's voice changed from commanding to something lighter in tone, showing that this was not a serious visit as some prelude to war or strife.

Dawn tried to dance out from under them as the portcullis was raised but Ellaria ably controlled the horse and urged him forward to follow Oberyn into the keep. Sansa removed her hood as they passed under the gate, her mother and Septa's teachings still hammered into her like silver filigree. _It is not meet to enter the holdfasts of your bannermen without your face visible--you are their lord's trustworthy lady, not some courtesan or spy_. Mother's voice had been stern, upset at Sansa as much as she had been at Arya. Lady Passience Karstark had felt very keenly, apparently, the disrespect of girls both under the age of ten at the time. They'd each had to write personal apologies to Lady Passience and Sansa had been united with Arya in resentment.

The Manwoody brothers postponed a welcoming feast in favor of private suppers, servants leading everyone to chambers warm with well-tended fires. The ride had been long and hard that day as they'd climbed over the lip of Prince's Pass and down again near the Boneway where Kingsgrave banners flew high. The rain hadn't helped and Sansa hoped that they would reach Sunspear before it began to rain for hours at a time or even all day. She well remembered the misty and drizzling days at Winterfell and knew she would want nothing more than warm covers and hot tea.

Part of her heart sang at the idea of the years of Winter spent as though they were Northron Summer--an eternal summer, stowed away in Sunspear among Dornish warriors, until her heart had healed over and her scars had hardened. _I will be like the clay they mined in Torrhen's Square, baked in fire into something strong._

Oberyn did not join them for supper, slipping away as they'd each predicted to look over the cases and suits brought to House Manwoody for the the head of House Martell to review and sit as judge for. Some things needed to be solved by a greater ruler than the lord of the specific holdfast and this was true across Westeros. The reason Dorne so easily fended off invaders was the same reason the North had for so long--their ruling House invested itself in the people and the people felt it.

When the people felt that investment they were moved by it--and thus three hundred years ago the North was ordered to bend the knee and had obeyed, and thus Dorne was ordered to join in the wedded bliss of a matched set of marriages and up until twenty years ago had gladly celebrated the union.

Later after supper as Tevira, having ably carved a place for herself as the first handmaiden for both Ellaria and Sansa, ordered the servants to clear their table Ellaria drew Sansa up by her hand and walked out to the small balcony of their rooms. Clouds still raced across the sky, the night not crisp and clear as it had been at Starktear, but the rain didn't return. They stood quietly as the town below the keep went to sleep, arms around each other's waist, watching the sky grow black from the bruised purple leftover from the sunset.

"My eldest is named Elia, after Oberyn's sister," Ellaria finally said, smoothing one hand around Sansa's hip and turning them face to face. Her breath was warm and tasted faintly of the honeyed milk that they'd had with supper--what little that she could taste as Ellaria's lips ghosted a breath from her own of course.

Sansa in turn linked her arms around Ellaria, looking into her dark eyes and touching her nose to the older woman's. She let Ellaria's warmth seep into her, disliking the chill that descended on them since the sun had set. Sansa hadn't quite managed to get warm despite the spice and heat of the food.

"How old is she?"

"She is eleven, nearly a maiden. She takes after Oberyn in everything but her face and form. In that I see myself save for when I look into her eyes. All of his children look at you with his eyes--even Tyene, whose eyes are as blue as yours, my love."

"Why did he name her Elia?"

Ellaria closed her eyes, pressing a short kiss to Sansa's lips, taking a few slow breaths as the night birds slowly started calling to each other.

"Oberyn is a brave man, and like all brave men he fights on despite his wounds. In another life with different deaths he would have fostered our daughter to Princess Rhaenys, watched over by his sweet sister. I never knew her but she was gentle according to both Oberyn and his brother Prince Doran. She was like you. Gentle and strong."

Sansa closed her own eyes, putting her forehead to Ellaria's shoulder. Though she'd been saved by Ellaria and Oberyn there was still so much she feared. So much she didn't know that she felt drowned by her own stupidity, her own youth.

"How can you let me in? My children will inherit--everywhere they go outside of Dorne they will--"

"They will be surrounded and protected by their sisters. Oberyn has needed someone to keep him grounded and I am too much alike to him to do it. When," Ellaria said softly into her ear, pausing for a moment to gather her thoughts, "we say 'my love,' we mean it. There is much about you to love, and Oberyn hopes you might love at least one of us someday. We let you in, Sansa, because you are not dead--life still flickers in your heart and we would warm ourselves by your fire."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your interest--let me know what you thought of this chapter! I miss you all!


	25. Oberyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we have the return of Oberyn! And just for information: No, I haven't done research on what the language of Westeros is called. I know it is mostly called "Common tongue" and that annoys the living crap out of me because that's like calling English "the common tongue." 
> 
> Yeah--I can walk into a major city just about anywhere and find someone who speaks English. That doesn't take away the fact that the language I speak isn't called "Common," it's called "English."
> 
> ...and the language in Westeros is called "Andaii" in this story :D (An-dah-ee)

Oberyn stole into his room late that night, his mind numbed from the legal documents--thankfully no tax disputes, he hated tax disputes. It was good he'd been fresh for the Manwoody brothers though, it was important to keep border families such as theirs closely allied to Sunspear. Nothing earned a man's gratitude like taking care of the tedious business of his life--and nothing informed Sunspear about the affairs of Dorne better than wading into that tediousness on a regular basis.

He couldn't wait until next year when he could take Arianne with him, though, to supervise her judgments for the other Dornish Houses. Doran asked that they do that for a few years and when Oberyn felt his niece was ready then Doran would step aside as the Ruling Prince and invest Arianne as the Ruling Princess. He and his brother had co-ruled Dorne for decades and each worried about being unable to advise Doran's successor. Arianne took care of many of Doran's responsibilities in Sunspear--next year would truly begin her tests as Princess.

Ellaria was already abed and he pecked a kiss to her cheek as he passed by her. She kept her eyes closed but smiled at the touch. He crossed to the balcony, the click of his boot heels announcing his presence, where Sansa stood watching the small city of Kingsgrave. She had changed from the peach dress they'd had her in to one of his long velvet tunics. The black fabric made her hair and skin vivid against the darkness of the night.

Sansa turned a little to look at him and didn't flinch when he put his hands on her shoulders.

"Will you share a sip of wine with me?" It wasn't what he wanted to say or do with her--he wanted to lead her back to bed and taste her skin again. Hear her gasp his name, smell the sweat at her shoulder, feel how she rolled her hips with his--but he could wait. She'd come to him the night before, she would perhaps come to him again one night.

"Is it too late to send for losennta? I'm chilled."

He laughed, rubbing his hands up and down her arms, nuzzling a kiss behind her ear. His robed tunics normally fell to his shins but this one on her nearly brushed the ground. He dearly liked it that she trusted him enough to wear his clothing.

"I brought some back with me, and I will build up the fire so we can add in the honey," he murmured, kissing her jaw and stepping away from her. One of Sansa's white hands darted out and grabbed his sleeve though, staying his movement so she could turn and face him properly. Sansa's blue eyes were luminous in the moonlight, her tongue darting out to wet her lips and without a thought Oberyn leaned in to kiss her. Her mouth was pliant and eager on his--and Oberyn couldn't shake the litany in his mind that she was accepted by his paramour, she wore his clothing, she asked for his people's songs and drinks, and that she'd willingly, trustingly shared his bed.

Sansa put her arms around his neck, lifting up on the tips of her toes until he took pity on her--breaking their kiss to pick her up, an arm under her knees and one at her back. She giggled, kissing the underside of his jaw until he gave in to her sweet mouth once more.

"I love you, my Sansa," he said between kisses, walking inside to sit on the chaise by the fire.

"I know," she whispered, "I know you both do." Her breathing was shallow as he laid back, laying her out along his body. Their legs were tangled up so her movements were ginger as she shifted around to get comfortable. Her confession pleased him greatly, because more than anything he wanted her to know that he wouldn't lie to her to hurt her.

The fire cracked behind them though and she flinched--she'd been led to trust, to confess, before and been hurt for it. Oberyn let her withdraw and lay her head on his chest, content with combing his fingers through her hair. Ellaria's eyes were open, watching them from where she lay on their bed. She blew a kiss at him which he returned before she closed her eyes once more.

"What is this? I've never seen you and Ellaria without them." Sansa fished his pendant out from his tunic, idly playing with the short chains that hung from the sigil. He let her inspect it for another moment, wondering if she would find the clasp on the sigil that would reveal the Martell sun and spear done in citrines and rubies.

"A House sigil. Ellaria's is from her father, Harmon of House Uller."

"Oo-lehr? My Septa always taught me it was Uh-lur. Oo-lehr...I will try to remember," Sansa said, her voice soft as one of her fingernails picked up on the seam on the sigil. Oberyn kept combing her hair, admiring the way it shimmered in the firelight as he let it fall between his fingers. He liked her weight on him--she was solid and whole, soft in all the right places for the look of her body.

"It comes from the Rhoynar. When they came to Dorne their language flooded all the way up to the Reach. The Westerlands washed much of it out, but it has never left Dorne. There are entire towns in Dorne where they speak only Rhoynish--and Andaii is utterly unknown to them. Many of the villages around Hellholt are like that."

Sansa found the clasp on his sigil and carefully opened the pendant, gasping softly when the firelight caught on the gemstones inside. Oberyn looked down at her as she traced them with reverent fingertips.

"You may have one of your own when we reach Sunspear, my love," he said, voice soft so as not to startle her. Rarely was his pendant ever opened--whores knew better than to touch a lord's jewels, Ellaria was no longer curious, and he himself did not need to look at it or show its contents. People knew who he was, just as they would know Sansa's identity without seeing the pendant of her House.

"May?"

"I will not parade you as some ornament here, my love. If you choose to wear a pendant bearing only the wolf of House Stark I will bring you the best silversmith in Sunspear," she met his eyes at this, mouth opening for a moment and then closing. She looked away and down, a blush coloring her cheeks before she kissed the column of his throat and snapped the pendant closed.

"I would like that--but only so they might put wolves rampant as supporters," she said, pulling herself up to rest on her elbow. He flicked an eyebrow up at her words, imagining the wolves framing the sigil of the Martells.

"Our children will be a union of two Houses royal, after all," she teased, laying her palm flat on his chest and kissing him. Oberyn gratefully kissed her back, a thrill running through him at her words. She'd shared her bed and body--and she now spoke of children and family crests with a smile in her voice. Sansa was a fine addition to his family, and he would keep her with him as long as she would stay.

Sweeping his hand down the black velvet covering her back, ticking the blade of his thumb on one of the golden suns over her ribs, he held her close enough that he felt her shiver.

"Are you still chilled?" he whispered against her lips, looking into her eyes--as dark as sapphires in the light of the fire. Leaning away from him, Sansa's smile turned shy and he remembered that though her eyes were old there were thankfully things she'd not been tortured with. Things he might show her the good of and keep her from the bad.

"Yes, though I don't think I will be for long, husband," she said, sliding her hand under his tunic and flicking one of his nipples with her finger. Oberyn drew in a sharp breath and pulled her back to kiss her once more. He hoped her scent thoroughly infested the garment she wore for he already planned on wearing it tomorrow. He needed something to comfort him through the long day of meetings and court cases.

"May I--" he paused to gather his thoughts and to draw her lower lip between his teeth, "--share your bed tonight, Sansa? You have me utterly bewitched."

"But Ellaria?"

"Will keep her hands to herself and otherwise not mind," Ellaria, her voice sleepy, mumbled from the bed. Sansa flushed so badly that Oberyn felt the heat of it on her skin. He rubbed his nose on hers with a grin.

"She wants you for herself but that's something you decide on my love. Just as bedding me is something you decide on. Until then we are both content," he said, falling to the backrest of the chaise. He'd not felt such an intense connection to a lover since Ellaria had stolen his heart fourteen years ago and he hoped that though the gods had made him wayward they would grant him with Sansa what they'd given him with Ellaria.

"If Ellaria is sure..." her voice trembled with uncertainty and it he put a finger under her chin so she would meet his eyes. Such a desire to please people was in her despite the horrors she'd been put through. It frankly amazed him. 

"I am not asking if Ellaria is sure, Sansa," he murmured, holding her gaze, "I am asking if _you_ are." And then he waited, distracting himself from counting the seconds by counting her eyelashes when she lowered her eyes from his. When she leaned away and stood he breathed out shallowly, withdrawing his hand from her face and laying it flat on his belly. Sansa wasn't ready and he swallowed back bile in shame that he'd not seen it the night before. For all his talk he'd done something unspeakable to her and--

"Yes--I am sure," she said, reaching for his hands and pulling him up to stand. He must have grinned like a boy as relief coursed through him but he couldn't bring himself to care as Sansa carefully stepped backwards towards the bed. He hadn't been wrong--she'd wanted him yesterday, and she wanted him now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so Oberyn says and does what he wants and what he said he wanted was some screentime not another 'horse journey chapter to Hellholt' so the above is what we got XD 
> 
> And in case anyone is wondering, Sansa does have a very specific ulterior motive. Reread chapter 19, near the end-ish? :D
> 
>  
> 
> Let me know what you think of this chapter!


	26. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your comments--next chapter is for sure for sure for sure the arrival in Hellholt! I know because I'm halfway done with it!

Though she'd been curious the evening before, Sansa was nervous when Oberyn asked her to accompany him to the small chamber he would hold court in for the day. Last night he'd gently helped her wash away the mess of their lovemaking, tucking her into the blankets with a lingering kiss that had almost brought him back to bed with her again. Though she'd eventually fallen asleep curled up with Ellaria, before her eyes slipped closed Sansa watched Oberyn reading and studying the few trickier cases he was to review and decide upon. His face was serious, the lines his laughter traced on his cheeks turning long and somber in the flickering candlelight--the sparks of silver in his dark hair glinting every now and then. His legend and exploits were not what her parents had wanted for her but the man who sat up late in the night, preparing to dispense justice, after a day of hard riding certainly was.

When she'd woken a few hours before dawn to use the privy he had been asleep at the desk, the candles burned down to nothing, and she covered him with a blanket before going back to bed. It reminded her of her wedding night to Tyrion Lannister--before she'd put on her nightshift she'd put a warm blanket on the dwarf. It hadn't been much but then again her security with him had resided in bearing a Lannister child and he'd denied her that security. Sansa found, as she watched Oberyn unconsciously hold the blanket closer, that she couldn't hold a grudge against Tyrion Lannister.

He couldn't give her safety, his name itself denied it, but he had gotten her out--whether by speaking to Oberyn or by keeping his peace after Oberyn moved to act, little Tyrion Lannister had gotten her _out_. She was married to a man who carried out justice as easily as breathing, though she knew there was a darkness in him that he'd so far kept well concealed. The Hound had told her that men enjoyed killing and though she wanted to stubbornly insist otherwise it was one of her last reservations against Oberyn Martell. He had enjoyed killing Gregor Clegane, was proud of his open hatred of Lannisters and their bannermen, and Sansa couldn't help but remember the tradition of her father's family.

He who spoke the sentence swung the sword. Though she knew deep in her bones it was the right way of doing things, as breakfast ended and they made their way to the assigned chamber, Sansa hoped that the Dornish had some other method of justice. She'd seen enough beheadings to last her several more years if not the rest of her life. The room they entered with Ser Dagos and his wife was appointed with Martell speared sun banners and the crowned skulls of the Manwoodys. Benches were lined up in rows before an elevated table where four chairs were set up facing the rest of the room.

As though reading her mind--her questions of why she was here, what she was seeing--Oberyn glanced at her and spoke.

"The judge's spouse sits as adviser to the judge if they feel the judge is worthy. You and Lady Marleyn are allowed and encouraged to speak to those we see, ask them questions as you like. I am sorry to demand your presence here when you've never seen--"

"But I have," Sansa interrupted, knowing the direction of his thoughts. Oberyn worried he forced too much Dornish custom on her, forgetting that his customs were far more palatable to her than the customs of King's Landing had been. He was looking at her as though she'd sprouted a third eye so she quickly continued, "at Lord Tyrion's trial by combat. You did not kill Gregor Clegane for Lord Tyrion--you spoke his crime and spoke his punishment, and you took his awful head for his deeds."

"That was no trial to base an opinion on, but it gladdens me you see it that way," Oberyn finally replied, taking her face between his palms and kissing her forehead before pecking a kiss at her mouth.

"I am also pleased you join me willingly here, for I cannot afford you to abstain. Your presence would be missed, questioned--and it would signify that I do not have support from my own family in my judgments. Your absence would undermine decisions I make on Doran's sanction and show that Martell justice is divided. Though I do love you, Sansa, I do not love anyone more than my brother."

Sansa held his hand between her two, lifting it to kiss his knuckles, and held his eyes without hesitation. When she'd left Winterfell she wouldn't have--couldn't have--possibly understood what he meant. But she was no longer that girl, she'd lived enough of life to know that much of it was gray--and that absolutes were blinding in their singularity. She'd finally grasped hers back in King's Landing--she would sooner die than ever again be under the thumb of the Lannisters or the Crown.

"I understand, believe me I do." Oberyn nodded, squeezing her hand before going to organize his papers with Ser Dagos. Sansa smoothed out her dress and wished she'd stolen one of Oberyn's tunics or cloaks. She'd never lived in a cold castle before--Winterfell had been heated by hot springs, King's Landing had been balmy and warm until the last weeks she'd been there, and Bitterbridge had boasted the last breaths of Summer. A bigger fire was in order she decided, and busied herself with tending it instead of shivering at the briskness of the room.

"Princess Sansa," she twitched in surprise but schooled her face into calmness before turning to face Lady Marleyn. The woman had honey colored hair and was comfortably fat from the two sons she'd given to Ser Dagos, Mors and Dickon. On her arm was a light shawl which she put into Sansa's hands.

"The warmth of the fire doesn't quite reach the way you'll want it to for a good few hours at least. Has Prince Oberyn explained how the day is broken up?" Sansa put the shawl over her shoulders with a soft _thank you_ and shook her head at Lady Marleyn's question. There was a good amount she could infer from Oberyn's words but she deeply appreciated the help. King's Landing had taught her several things about help--the first was to always consider who offered it, and the second was to always-- _always_ \--consider taking it.

"First the case is read in Dornish Valyrian, then Rhoynish, and then Andaii to those assembled and Prince Oberyn will ask the two of us if we have a clear grasp of it and if we do not then we discuss what is not clear. Once that is determined the four of us interview those involved to our satisfaction. Prince Oberyn and my husband write their decisions and exchange them. If they are alike then Prince Oberyn will stand and speak the judgment--and if the punishment shall be of his choosing, in Sunspear, or if Dagos bears responsibility for deciding on and carrying it out."

They were busying themselves with pouring goblets of water for their table and straightening some of the benches as they spoke. The trials and cases would last until early evening and any that went unheard would have to wait six to seven moons before there was another visit from Prince Oberyn--there would be few breaks taken by anyone, and Tevira was already organizing meals to be brought later in the day.

"And if their judgments are in opposition?"

"Then they will retire to another chamber to argue against one another and return when they are in agreement. Once, several years ago now, Prince Oberyn came back with a blacked eye and the same opinion."

Sansa appreciated the forewarning as Oberyn called her to sit at his left. He wore the black tunic she'd bundled herself in the night before, the dark fabric bringing out copper tones in his skin while golden sunbursts shone brightly against the velvet. Ellaria had said that it was a garment made for Winter for velvet was sweltering to wear during Summers anywhere in Dorne.

"Princess, do you speak High Valyrian?" Oberyn said softly as the doors to the chamber were opened to those waiting outside.

"I read it better than I speak it at the moment, Prince Oberyn," she replied, mindful of the context in which he called her Princess rather than _my love_ or _Sansa_. He smirked at her words, his own reply teasing.

"Everyone reads it better than they speak it," he said in...not Valyrian. Sansa gaped at him like a fish as she muddled through what he'd said. Her ear recognized most of it and told her what she'd heard--but her mouth told her it was unable to speak it back. The smirk turned into a grin while he watched her struggle, continuing, "Dornii valyrae oa maozdat vylhysa valyrae tha andaleo wem rhoynavno katlasa zhatas." _Dornish Valyrian comes from Rhoynish blood watering the fruit of Andalos and Valyria._

"You will pick it up quickly, Princess, do not worry," he said, switching back to Andaii and kissing her hand before Ser Dagos rose to call the room to attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think of this and all my made up Dornish Valyrian....!


	27. Oberyn, Ellaria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've mentioned in some replies that I fiddled with the Sand Snakes' ages but haven't mentioned it since because they hadn't really appeared (except for that one chapter with Obara). I did this because...I...wanted ... ... to? So for the purposes of the fic Nymeria is 17 and Tyene is 16. Obara is 22.
> 
> ...Also for the purposes of the fic: Ellaria and Oberyn have been together for 14 years, and she is the reason he went out and claimed the rest of his bastard daughters. Save for Obara she's been their mother for as long as they can remember. Don't worry! Everything is under control. Totes.

He'd worried that Sansa would perhaps be unwilling to ask questions and interact with those whose cases--ranging from homestead border disputes to murder--they would hear. Oberyn was pleasantly surprised when she took a blank piece of parchment from him and wrote notes about what they heard--referring back to the page when he allowed her to ask her questions. They were keen questions but of a bent entirely new to him--Oberyn had never had to watch a parent beheaded or been imprisoned for years on end.

There was something stern and unforgiving in his wife, but there were also deep wells of compassion and understanding that she drew from as she interviewed those who stood before them. Ellaria was much the same way--one did not grow up the only child of Harmon Uller of Hellholt and end up soft _or_ cold.

Oberyn nearly laughed when he glanced at Sansa's notes sheet and saw her drawing her own conclusions next to the small facts she jotted down, though she made no peep against the decisions he and Dagos arrived at. It surprised him where their opinions were the same and intrigued him where they differed. Not enough to move him to change the judgments, but her thoughts certainly made him curious. He and Doran were hard men because their mother had been a hard woman--even his dear sister had had a core of steel, her courage and fortitude showing through her letters to Doran during the last months of her life as the war came to her door.

Sansa's strength he admired--but her head for discerning judgment he wanted to study. Before they closed for the day they heard one last case, one brought by a sheep farmer. The man had declined a speedier process months ago in favor of having Prince Oberyn review it. He wanted to build a seven foot high stone wall against the potential of Stormlander vagabonds stealing his herd. Since walls above four feet were considered small holdfasts, under the law of Oberyn's grandmother, he had had to consult with his sworn lord before building it. Because the Manwoodys depended on strength in numbers they often refused such requests--men who built high walls felt safe enough behind them when trouble came. This weakened the defenses of Kingsgrave and these hold-outs were often put to the sword when invaders came.

"I live ten and six miles from Kingsgrave, milords, but with sheep it might as well be thirty. I wouldn't make it to the gates if trouble come," the man said when Lady Marleyn asked him his motivation for a wall. Oberyn was articulating his own question when Sansa spoke--not to the farmer but to Dagos.

"What does House Manwoody do if reports arrive of an invading army or band of cutthroats?"

"Send riders out--with extra horses to bring back women and children, Princess," Dagos replied, his eyebrows knitted together at her odd question. It was rare that the judges spoke to one another, Oberyn reflected, and perhaps he should have told his wife that. Perhaps next time, in Skyreach or Sandstone, but he would not stop her now because this dispute was taking on an entirely new color.

"And how far do these riders range from Kingsgrave?"

"A good thirty miles--any farther and the smallfolk have other holdfasts than Kingsgrave they can go to more easily."

There was silence then in the room as Sansa stole another piece of parchment and wrote _Let him build his walls on promise that he properly maintain extra horses for the warning riders and those who they retrieve?_ She'd seen him looking at her work, apparently, for she only slightly twitched the page so he could easily read it. He took the page from her and gave it over to Dagos to read over.

"Princess Sansa I have never been to the North, so I do not understand where your questions come from. Ser Dagos has been one of my great friends for many years and I would understand why you needle him," he said to her as Dagos read the page. The shepherd, gloves in hand, stood ignored for the moment.

"It is two hundred miles from Winterfell to the Wall, Prince Oberyn, and it is three hundred miles to reach the sea if you go west and three hundred if you go east. It is near eight hundred miles to the Neck--in the North the smallfolk do not often have the holdfasts of nobles to flee to. I was merely curious as to what is done in Dorne."

Oberyn bit his tongue to keep from grinning or forgetting himself--this was still a solemn duty his brother had entrusted him with, no matter the fact that it seemed his wife could match him in cleverness step for step in a way that only Ellaria or Doran had ever been able to do.

* * *

 

They left at dawn the morning after the day of trials and made good progress towards Hellholt over the course of several days, stopping along the way to hold courts in Skyreach and Sandstone, and it gladdened Ellaria's heart to see the spires of her father's holdfast reach up above the horizon. The elaborate necklace of House Uller clinked merrily in time with Dawn's gait, one small bronze disc for every time the Ullers had repelled invaders in centuries past. She'd grown up learning each failed invasion for she was her father's heir and ought to know these things--someday she hoped to teach her daughters, though something sad in her heart told her that they were Martells through and through despite their bastard birth.

After weeks on the road, with King's Landing nearly a month behind them, Ellaria just wanted a place to rest for several days. Now in her fourth moon, her unborn daughter was beginning to grow rapidly. Her belly gave good evidence of her pregnancy and soon the babe would start to kick and squirm. In the back of her mind she couldn't help but wonder about Sansa--they would reach Sunspear in less than a fortnight and be greeted by Oberyn's eight daughters, girls who ranged in age from just four to more than twenty. Such a meeting did not worry her, for hands were rarely raised against women in Dorne and exactly no one was stupid enough these days to challenge Oberyn, but she was curious how girls such as Obara and Elia would look at Sansa.

Ellaria hoped that the girls would all see what she and Oberyn had--that Sansa, wife of Prince Oberyn Martell, was no girl despite her age. Her eyes were as old as the Crone's and her words at times carrying the same depth of wisdom. Even Obara, her outlook on life colored always by the childhood she'd spent in the rooms above a brothel before Ellaria had threatened grave physical harm on Oberyn unless he found the child, wouldn't be able to meet Sansa's eyes and fail to see the strength there. Oberyn's girls might dislike his choice in lover but their reaction would not be traced to a wilting flower of a woman.

"Oberyn told me they only speak Rhoynish in the villages around Hellholt," Sansa murmured, making conversation as she resisted wiping the sweat from her face. Both she and Oberyn had counseled their young companion against it--for only more sweat would rise and she would eventually faint as the sun poisoned her. Though they'd been running from Winter since Ashfordtown, Hellholt was one of the few places in Dorne that remained decently sunny and warm for Dornish tastes throughout the years of rain and wind that Winter brought. Oberyn had come here fourteen years ago with his daughter Sarella--a new father floundering in sudden guilt that he knew of at least two more children bearing his blood--and lost himself in Ellaria's arms for a few weeks, listening to her counsels and eventually taking her with him as he set out to claim the rest of his bastards.

He had been quite a different man back then and was now all the better for the years since he'd first shared her bed.

"They prefer it, yes," Ellaria finally answered, tearing herself from her thoughts, "though they will deign to speak Dornish Valyrian to those who don't speak Rhoynish. The ones who know any Andaii will pretend otherwise most of the time. They will probably muddle along if you speak High Valyrian to them, though."

"It sometimes feels like a separate realm here," Sansa said as she tugged her cowl more securely over her head. Her cheeks were burned red from the day before when the air had been slightly cooler but the sun had been fiercer. Ellaria and Oberyn had teased her that she would get freckles and she had pouted until Ellaria had kissed the upset from her face and form.

"I demanded, after Tywin Lannister sacked King's Landing," Oberyn said, riding close by, "that Elia's attackers be delivered to Sunspear in chains or pieces and that I did not much care which. My brother sent a much calmer missive to Lord Jon Arryn which carefully obscured my point but explicitly added the threat of war--so when Lord Arryn visited my brother he left with an agreement that Dorne was to be left alone by the Usurper's greedy fingers and that war would not come to Westeros from us. We would conduct our own taxes, write and practice our own laws, and do so until Elia's murderers were brought to justice."

"So..." Sansa quietly worked out what this meant in terms of recent events, one of her hands reaching for Ellaria's. "So my marriage to you voided--but--"

"Our marriage has changed nothing, in terms of Jon Arryn's peace," Oberyn quickly countered. Ellaria reminded herself that the taste of independence had been too sweet to resist for Dorne and they would fight bitterly to keep it. "Let Tywin Lannister think he has brought us back on the empty promise of guaranteeing Sansa's claim to the North for her children--the promise of Dornish obedience is equally empty. You cannot force the seasons to turn or the waxing of the moon."

Sansa was silent for a long moment after that and Ellaria worried that perhaps Oberyn had been too harsh. King's Landing had not shown their companion anything good about brash words or actions, and even caution had been a violent teacher to her. _Doran will be able to draw far more out of her than either of us, for his blood is cooler. And it will be better if Oberyn does not ever know the true extent of her suffering from her own lips._ Ellaria knew his anger must have boiled his blood the first time he'd glimpsed the scars on Sansa's back--Ellaria had very nearly flinched when she'd seen them herself. Things like what had been done to Sansa didn't go unpunished here in Dorne.

"Lord Tywin does not understand the North--they will sooner die to a man now than surrender after he convinced a sworn bannerman to betray Guest Law. They're not likely to rally for me, but they will never rally for him. Not when they've the option of death," Sansa finally said, and Ellaria remembered--nearly two months ago now--the redhead demanding poison from Oberyn. After only a taste of freedom, mere weeks of it, Sansa had found herself unable to give it up upon the possibility of Oberyn's death. She would know better than they how the Northmen would feel.

"Perhaps with Dorne at their side, the North might rise again," Ellaria said, a hint of a smile in her voice. Intrigue in Dorne moved slowly but that made it inexorable in its march--and though Sansa might not know it she had married into the family from which it all originated. In her youthful face Ellaria knew many of her countrymen saw the snake coiling back to strike, the spear being lifted from the shoulder of the Martells, and most of all their long-awaited revenge on those who had done Princess Elia harm.

Her father would worry for Ellaria of course--she'd left Dorne as Oberyn's wife in all but name, and now Oberyn returned having been wed but not to her--so she hoped that he would look at Sansa and know that she was innocent of any charges he might lay at her feet. Absently rubbing at her belly she also mused that it would be lovely to have someone other than a handmaiden or septa looking after the younger girls. While her father had simply told her to 'figure out an heir for Hellholt' from her situation with Oberyn, Ellaria hadn't been raised to become a wife as Sansa was. She was decent enough at the whole business, she estimated, but Sansa had been destined for becoming a wife and mother.

They reached the city an hour before sunset and Ellaria swallowed hard when she saw the two figures standing next to her father before the gates. Nymeria and Tyene stood arm in arm, their heights greatly different--Nymeria was tall and lithe, wearing only breeches and a breast wrapping in the mild evening air, while petite Tyene wore a dress not unlike the ones the Lannisters had put on Sansa though it lacked the elaborate sleeves of Westerlander fashions. In truth it lacked sleeves entirely--though it was downright demure by Dornish standards, and she knew her almost-daughter preferred it that way.

Each of them were older than Sansa by more than a year, being a year apart themselves even.

Oberyn's face shuttered as he looked on his daughters, his eyelids low to conceal his emotions, and his mouth flattened into a stern line. She'd asked him to write to Doran, to tell the man of what had transpired in King's Landing, but this greeting meant that he had chosen to omit enough from his brother that Doran had been forced to act. Oberyn had been many things in his life but a liar was not one of them--and he would die before lying to his children, even if they were sent to spy on him.

Sansa must have also realized who these people might be for she sat in Ellaria's arms stiffly, pale as a ghost despite the burn of the sun warming her cheeks. She whispered into Sansa's ear to breathe, naming off Nymeria and Tyene so she might familiarize herself with them before the introductions.

"I'm going to be sick," Sansa whispered, nerves piercing every word. Ellaria held her close, breathing in the smell of her hair through the thick cowl on her head, murmuring that she would _not_ be sick--they would love her when they got to know her, that there was nothing to worry about.

"Hello Mother! Who is that with you?" Tyene called, her voice sweet and polite. While Nymeria had a few memories of her birth mother, Tyene had been too young to truly know the woman who bore her--and so Ellaria had been her mother since she'd come into Oberyn's life.

"Girls, my dear children," Oberyn called as they pulled up close to the welcome party, dismounting before he continued, "I have someone to introduce to you." There was confusion slowly taking root on Nymeria's face but realization flooding Tyene's and Ellaria's heart broke for her. All of the older children knew of and understood the whoring and affairs of both Oberyn and herself--but nothing had ever been quite so permanent as marriage. Oberyn gently helped Sansa down from Ellaria's arms, lifting her cowl away from her face and brushing a few flyaways down before putting her hand in his and turning to his daughters.

"I will tell you everything, in time, but first let me present Princess," Ellaria watched Nym's face crumble to match her sister's as she too realized what was happening, "Sansa Martell, my new wife."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So thank you all for reading--Hopefully you aren't all jaw-to-the-floor like poor Nym and Tyene! Let me know what you think!


	28. Oberyn, Nymeria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are going to spend some time in Hellholt, so the following isn't the last we're going to hear from everyone!

Lord Harmon Uller was breathing shallowly, hands clenched into fists as a flush of anger rose on his cheeks. Setting aside greeting his daughters for the moment Oberyn nudged Sansa back a step so he stood in her place, one hand out to his side and the other on the hilt of his dagger.

Few understood the nuances of Dornish culture better than Oberyn did--and so he knew the words his actions spoke to Lord Harmon when he put himself between the older man and Sansa. The simple step meant he would stop Harmon should he think to raise a hand against Sansa--going for the dagger showed he did not even slightly jest at his seriousness. Though Dornish women were often raised to defend themselves, this display was to remind Harmon it was disgraceful to threaten violence on them--and that Oberyn did not at the moment trust the older man to remember it.

He knew also that his step deeply shamed Harmon, who was as near a goodfather as he would ever have and showered Oberyn's children with gifts as though they all carried Uller blood. The Lord of Hellholt refused to marry and had named his bastard daughter, Ellaria, as his sole heir and had legitimized her claim long before Oberyn had been part of her life. Harmon of House Uller did not suffer fools or violent degenerates--and had _he_ seen the marks on Sansa's back three months ago he would have cut a bloody swath through the Red Keep to find the one who'd put them there, safety be damned.

Ellaria had gotten her dark eyes from her father--warm at times, stern when needed--and Oberyn kept his gaze steady as he met Harmon's. Eventually the fury abated in the older man's face and his shoulders relaxed as his hands loosened from the fists he'd balled them into. There would be time to yell and exchange blows but not here--not when Oberyn had felt the need to protect Sansa from those blows.

Nym was the one who finally broke the tense silence, her voice bearing only traces of confusion and hurt as she greeted Sansa and kissed her cheek.

"Princess Sansa, welcome to Hellholt. This is Lord Harmon Uller. We apologize for the informality of your welcome, Prince Oberyn did not send word of your arrival." Sansa didn't know what to do next, it was fairly obvious, for most greetings so far had been formal ones by the lords and ladies of the holdfasts they'd come through--their party dwindling as bannermen settled back into their homes, the chances of attack shrinking the closer they went to Sunspear.

"My love," he said, turning slightly but keeping himself still between Harmon and Sansa, "this is my second daughter, Nymeria Sand, and my third, Tyene Sand."

" _Father you dishonor our mother to make her watch--"_ Nymeria began in Dornish Valyrian, her voice brimming with anger, before he silenced her with a look.

" _What makes you think I married another without her consent?_ " he asked--the tongue of his home slipping from him faster than he could stop it as Sansa looked between them , trying in vain to keep up with the fast Valyrian dialect. Tyene's face was still hard but doubt entered Nym's.

"I will tell all of you everything in time," he reminded them, this time in the language of the Andals that Sansa could actually keep up with, "but first we are weary from the road and would sleep. It has been two weeks since we slept in a bed more than twice, and your mother tires easily from the child she carries. Lord Harmon, if you would be so kind," he finished, inclining his head in a request that Harmon lead them into the city. Near the gates a group of grooms and stableboys awaited, ready to take the horses when they were bid--and with a heavy, hesitant nod Harmon Uller sent them scurrying towards the beasts as the great lord himself turned to enter Hellholt.

Oberyn took Sansa's right hand and Ellaria's left--walking ahead of his daughters but behind Harmon. Among the knights assembled along the road to the keep itself he spotted Daemon Sand who raised an eyebrow up at the sight Oberyn must have made. He hadn't removed his riding cloak and it whispered and mumbled behind him on the cobblestone as Sansa and Ellaria's footsteps became a soft counterpoint to the sound of his own booted footsteps. Oberyn pursed his lips and teasingly inclined his head to his occasional lover-- _you chose not to come to King's Landing when I asked, you can hardly blame me,_ his gesture said.

By the time they were ushered into the keep, Harmon had walked off most of his ire--that and the man had kept a close eye on Ellaria as much as possible, likely noting the fact that she still held Oberyn's hand tightly, and perhaps even Sansa's vague air of discomfort had the man reconsidering his first opinion. Inside the mercifully cool building, Oberyn removed his cloak and handed it off to a waiting servant, turning to Ellaria and removing hers as Nym and Tyene saw to Sansa.

It was the shocked gasp, almost pained, Tyene let out that reminded him of the scars--scars that he'd grown accustomed to seeing but still mourned--on his young wife's back. Westerlander clothing hid them, but Sansa was no longer wearing Westerlander dresses in the Dornish heat and her back was nearly fully exposed.

"I am sorry, I did not mean to offend, Prin--" Tyene recovered from her shock quickly, though she remained frozen between wanting to set the cloak aside or put it back over Sansa's shoulders. Oberyn was about to make a move to comfort both his daughter and his wife when Sansa's lips fluttered into a small smile.

"Do not apologize, Tyene, it will not make them fade. Even your father gasped when he first saw them," Sansa's voice was soft, pleasant and without the least bit of sadness or bitterness in it. To think three and a half months ago she had been shaking in terror after having something as innocent as a nightmare, thinking that he would beat her for something she could not control. There were still miles to go, though, and he was glad his girls would see how it looked to rebuild from ashes. He'd made enough enemies in his life--and would soon be making more, he estimated--that he might be taken from them at any point.

Ellaria was strong--stronger than him, emotionally--but the way a lover rebuilt their life was different from how a daughter did, and even as Sansa willingly shared her bed with him she was still the daughter of murdered parents.

* * *

 

 One of Nymeria's first memories was of a man, with skin as dark as her own and flashing eyes, walking into her mother's suite of rooms with a woman on his arm. Her mother had gasped, thrown things at him, yelling at the sight of the woman he had with him--and the memory ended when the woman had sat down on the floor and opened her arms to little Nymeria. She had, by the account of her father, run straight into Ellaria's arms and cried into the woman's shoulder for the better part of twenty minutes. Since that day Ellaria had been her mother, and Nym had been pleased to call herself Oberyn Martell's daughter.

Today she wondered how her birth mother had felt that day so long ago--looking at a young woman on Oberyn Martell's arm, demanding obedience. This girl who could be no more than six and ten-- _if that_ \--took Ellaria's pride of place in the family, even as Ellaria swelled with yet another of Nym's sisters. Though she thought, as she studied Sansa, she saw perhaps the girl wasn't a girl any longer. Her eyes were as old as Father's, much pain and tragedy having entered her soul that way, and then there were the scars on her back.

The only scars Nym and her sisters bore were ones they'd earned in training with either Father, Areo, or each other. The mars on her flesh were her own, no one had laid hand or blade or whip to her that she didn't have a good chance of dodging--that she hadn't asked for the danger of. She wondered when her father had seen the scars--perhaps having seen them he'd stolen this girl, or had she been given to him because the damage made her undesirable? Nym knew from his face though that he wouldn't be telling her tonight. He and those he'd brought with him were dead tired, and he would have a looser tongue in the morning after he'd had some sleep.

"There is a Skyreach girl, Tevira Gryal, who is handmaiden to both my wife and Ellaria," her father was saying to Grandfather's steward, "please let her coordinate our meal for tonight." Grandfather only shook his head, mumbling something as he retired to his study, and Father led Sansa and Mother up to the rooms he normally took when visiting here.

Tyene threaded her arm with Nym's, watching them make their way up the staircase.

"She is certainly a fine lady," Tyene said, admiring the elegant way Sansa conducted herself--just as they'd always imagined ladies from outside of Dorne to act. The scars, evidence of abuses usually harshly punished in Dorne, told yet another story. One their family knew all too well about those outside of Dorne, unfortunately.

"She is certainly a strong lady, though I do not know who she is save for being Father's wife. Perhaps she is the great treasure Obara said he was bringing," Nym replied. Tyene rested her head on Nym's shoulder, hugging her arm close as they turned to follow Grandfather to his study.

"I only hope she does not seek to replace Mother." Nym smiled faintly at her sister's worry. Ellaria Sand would not be easily replaced, that much she knew. No her worry rested on the fact that the girl on Father's arm could give him children the rest of Westeros would respect and listen to--bearing the _name_ of Martell and not just the _looks_ of a Martell as she and her sisters did. Nymeria Sand worried not for her adoptive mother, Ellaria Sand, but for herself and her sisters--and their place in their father's household now that he had a wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, everyone! Let me know how you liked it!!


	29. Arianne, Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aornan = henna, which you can dye your hair with. Yay made up words!
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Arianne didn't know what to make of the smugglers who begged an audience with her. They were of a smattering of regions in Essos, but hailed from Tyrosh most recently. Their captain was Dornish, though, and Arianne was pleased to conduct their business in Dornish Valyrian rather than Tyroshi. The woman had put aornan in her hair, turning it from black to a ruddy gloss, and wore it braided elaborately atop her head. There had been a letter, she said, from the Prince--posted for all the smugglers of Tyrosh to see.

 _Bring a litter of direwolves from above the Wall to Sunspear and be paid in riches according to your trouble_ \--most laughed it off on the simple fact that few had good enough contacts in the North or even above the Wall for such a task but this woman did. She merely didn't want to make such a trip on an empty promise.

The mystery of Uncle Oberyn's priceless treasures was at least answered, Arianne thought after confirming the truth of the reward. Uncle Oberyn would pay the woman from his own coffers, he merely needed her help in moving the process along. She made plans to ride for the Water Gardens that evening, for her father would surely love to know what the Red Viper was up to. The meeting with the smugglers had been private--without her father or uncle present she did not include her advisers in small meetings such as this. This was family business, and until she determined it was something that affected the rest of Dorne she would not muddle the lines between family and duty.

Besides, she was wary of those tasked to advise her when Uncle Oberyn wasn't present--though he was known throughout Westeros as a hot-head, in Dorne he was especially famous for the balance between wisdom and justice in his dealings. He was a fair man, one with deep hurts that he kept private in the face of his people.

It was a two hour ride to the Water Gardens--they'd been built far from Sunspear on purpose to give them peace, to let those who visited them feel the quiet seep into their souls. Her mother had adored them, delighting in the fact that the lowborn played equally with the highborn. Until Father had had to make peace with the Yronwoods, Mother had spent much of her time in the shade there. Soon there would be another Princess of Dorne who resided in the ancient palace, and Arianne knew her father would deeply appreciate knowing who that woman would be.

 

* * *

 

Sansa sat on a bench by the window, braiding her hair into a plait, and watched Oberyn and Ellaria out of the corner of her eye. Her husband had a soft smile as he leaned in to kiss Ellaria's neck, one hand splayed wide over the bump that was just recently making itself known. She blushed, looking away, when Oberyn backed Ellaria just a few feet to the wall and rolled his hips into her, his kisses fierce. So far there hadn't been time to wonder how she might feel when Oberyn so openly turned his attention to Ellaria. She had expected envy or hurt--to feel cast aside.

Instead she only wanted to go to them, even in what was a private moment they'd stolen for themselves. She'd grown used to sleeping in the same bed as they over the last several weeks, and she alternated between which of them she rode with each day. Sansa knew that Oberyn belonged to Ellaria far more than he would ever belong to her, and even as she grew closer to the other woman she could feel the deep thread of attachment running from Ellaria to Oberyn.

So instead of pouting or butting in, Sansa finished her braiding and then dipped a kerchief in the rose water to pat at her cheeks where the sun had burned them. It was vain but she hoped she would not freckle--should her skin change to suit the Dornish sun, she would rather it go gracefully and evenly like Ellaria and Oberyn's. She'd had quite enough of being the odd looking one--and though Sansa knew her pale skin, blue eyes, and red hair would always set her apart here, she wanted to at least be otherwise unremarkable.

Oberyn wanted her to sit at his side, chin thrown high with confidence, and Sansa found herself wanting that sometimes too but old habits died hard. She didn't quite know how to stand that tall anymore, if she ever had, and it was so much easier to let herself fade into the shadows. It had been extremely tiring the last two days to appear as she wanted to, to uphold the image she was cautiously trying to cultivate among her husband's bannermen and friends. Sansa just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep.

"My love we've saddened you," Oberyn said, resting a warm hand on the back of her neck. Sansa glanced up at him, startled out of her reverie by his touch. Ellaria was changing into her night shift, her skin glowing and marked only with the spidery stretch marks her four children had given her on her abdomen. Oberyn sank down next to her on the bench, resting his temple against hers, and together they watched Ellaria fuss with the bedding. The woman wasn't beautiful in the way that ladies like Queen Cersei were beautiful, but there was something catching about her--once the eye was drawn to her, she was hard to ignore.

"You--you haven't saddened me, Oberyn," she managed to say finally, looking away from Ellaria as she settled into bed.

"You tried to disappear in plain sight--you do it when you are sad," the woman called, grabbing a pillow and hugging it close to her front. If Oberyn was the viper, Ellaria was the cobra--entrancing, dangerous. Sansa shrank into herself though and her husband had to draw her chin up so she would meet his gaze.

"Tell me what gnaws at you, my love," Oberyn murmured, getting her to slide up onto his lap. The night breezes plucked at her dress and she shivered against him. It was cold in the desert at night, so cold she dreamed of Winterfell's warm rooms when sleeping between Oberyn and Ellaria. Her thoughts though turned to forgotten Ser Prestan, and the jests and japes made by their companions over the last few months about whores and squires and serving girls. It was a worry that would hurt Oberyn and Ellaria to hear her speak it, but she couldn't let this sadness fester. Better she be honest, as her husband wanted her to.

"There will be a time when I am..." _discarded_ was too callous a word so she searched for another, "asked to keep my distance, or sent away. As we get closer to the lives you led in Sunspear the closer that time comes. Your daughters mean so much to you, and neither Nymeria nor Tyene approved of me earlier." To her great relief tears did not well in her eyes as she spoke, but there was a sick feeling brewing in her stomach at how Oberyn would react. Ellaria was a carefree woman and moreover was understanding of Sansa's fears, at least those she'd shared in the past. It was Oberyn who felt hurts so much deeper in his heart.

"Sansa," he said, drawing her head to rest on his shoulder. "My Sansa, you think we will grow tired of you?" She swallowed back bitter tears at his words, ones she'd occasionally worried over the last week. Ser Prestan had lasted a week between these two, and she'd enjoyed their attention for nearly a fortnight now.

"What may happen in the future is unknowable, Sansa, but I do know that you warm something in me that only Ellaria has ever kindled--and I have loved her for fourteen years. We might have occasional affairs, that I do not deny. The Gods made me wayward, but," he changed his hold on her to stand up and walk to the bed, "I will come back to you so long as you wish to let me."

"I am of the same mind, my love," Ellaria said as Oberyn set Sansa down, "and the girls will soon see you in a better light. They will love you when they realize you kept this one," she thumbed Oberyn's nose as he settled in behind Sansa, "from getting himself killed in King's Landing."

"But I--I didn't--"

"You put your life on the line with mine, lover, and tied your fate to mine. My sister is dead and would remain so if I lived or died--Ellaria can hold her own, she would make it back to Dorne somehow if I fell. But had I given in to rage and pride, I could have gotten you killed as well as myself," Oberyn said, a laugh in his next words as he nuzzled a kiss to the side of her neck, "you are perhaps the only reason I made it back to Dorne alive."

Sansa wriggled to lay on her back, her burned cheeks aching from the blush that rose to them as Oberyn trailed reverent fingers down her chest to lay his hand flat just below her navel. Ellaria lay on her side, her eyes bright with excitement as she watched.

"That means I owe you my life, Sansa, and I mean to give it to you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was telling a friend about this story, and specifically about whatever conversation Oberyn and Harmon are going to have and he came up with the following: 
> 
> "Who the hell is that?"  
> "My wife."  
> "Your what?"  
> "I wed her in--"  
> "I know what a wife is, Oberyn, I just thought you didn't."
> 
> It doesn't really fit, but it did make me cackle so there you go. I hope you liked this chapter, let me know what you thought of it!


	30. Oberyn, Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Harmon! More Tyene! Hints at Things!

Ser Deziel was charged with keeping their "guest" safe and well cared for and Oberyn was careful now with who was present when making introductions to the lords and ladies of Dorne. Sansa's reaction to the thought of seeing the crudely severed head tempered his own grisly excitement to remind him that while many Dornishmen shared his anger at Elia's death they perhaps didn't share his joy at Gregor Clegane's manner of execution.

The manticore poison caused boils and discolorations even after death and in the preservative liquid, and the liver oil of salt eels from Pyke turned the preservative a stomach churning greenish yellow. He had mixed the manticore venom with the eel oil to ensure that if Gregor Clegane killed him, the Mountain would die screaming. Salt eel liver oil was mostly harmless alone, but it exacerbated the effects of both medicines and poisons. In poisons such as that of the manticore it meant no antidote would work in a life-saving capacity.

Oberyn had never seen Gregor Clegane in the flesh before that day of the trial but he would have known the man on sight. The man's head was huge, requiring a jar traded with Grandmaester Pycelle in exchange for an ounce of salt eel liver oil. The Grandmaester was an idiot and a fool in Oberyn's estimation but not so foolish as to pass up the opportunity for such a precious component of his craft at such a low price.

Though he'd long abandoned his quest for a maester's chain, Oberyn's curiosity had never abated. It was why he kept notes about Ser Gregor's preserved head, writing them down after each time he looked at it. Many lords and ladies had realized soon enough that they ought to have followed their Princess' lead after viewing the great treasure Oberyn had taken from King's Landing--but not Harmon Uller.

They'd met for a predawn sparring match, playfully trading blows with hard ebony staves. Hard as steel, the staves met the equal placement between pain and safety for training--and kept the skills of Dornish spear fighting sharp without having to hold back. It was also incredibly fun to train with such an experienced warrior as Harmon Uller.

Each of them danced around, skidding when needed around the training court in their boots. Most fighters focused on the dance of their feet, how each step ought to support and carry blows dealt and taken. It was why the most famed duelists in Westeros were almost all Dornishmen--they kept strong forms, not only strong feet, and those strong forms depended on practicing skidding, on practicing trusting one's muslces to carry through. Oberyn well remembered his brother Doran who had been fearsome in his glory days, having mastered his solid forms on many different footings--using his impressive rolls and feints even on sand.

"Shall we wait for Ellaria and your wife before we sit for breakfast?" Oberyn made a noise of assent, accepting a cloth from one of Harmon's squires to dry his face and shoulders of sweat.

"Would you first see my other prize from the Capitol?" Harmon, wiping his own face and chest, nodded even as his brows knit together at the mention, however veiled, of Sansa. Oberyn sent a summons to Ser Deziel to bring their guest to Lord Uller's solar.

"Perhaps you will tell me of this wife of yours," the Lord of Hellholt said in Dornish Valyrian as they walked into the keep from the courtyard they'd been in. The castle was waking up around them as squires and handmaidens set out polished boots or lit fires in inner rooms. Harmon sent for a pair of baths to be drawn in his solar--so their family wouldn't turn their noses come breakfast.

"I saw the violence done to her--I cannot imagine what such a slip of a girl must have done to merit it." He glanced at his almost-goodfather and sighed before responding. Sansa herself hadn't yet told him anything of the scars beyond what he could tell from sight--they were whip scars mostly, with a few cuts made when the flat of a blade hit too hard and the bruised flesh split. It was also obvious that a handmaiden rather than a maester had seen to the wounds.

"You cannot imagine the tyrant that those butchers raised. A child led in dreams of respect and glory by a Stormlander pig and a Lannister--the Seven Kingdoms have only themselves to blame for not putting up Sansa's father as king. Even a Tully or Tyrell would have had better claim and better sense."

"Who is her father? Who is _she?"_ Oberyn bowed his head for a moment, his first glimpse of her flashing to the front of his mind. A broken doll used as a facade but a woman hard as steel enclosed within.

"Sansa's father was Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. She could be Queen in the North if the Smith ever works the steel of fate to her favor." Harmon's glance was as sharp as his intake of breath. The wheels of Dornish justice were beginning to grind, their grist the sins of Westeros, and Harmon Uller knew well enough what that would look like in the grand scheme of things.

"Fates rarely change," the older man muttered, though, and Oberyn grinned ruefully at the opening provided to him.

"When the sun dies the long night begins--but the sun doesn't always die of old age. Sometimes the bold and brave throw their spears so high they've no option but to land true."

Later, when Deziel unveiled Gregor Clegane's head, Harmon revisited the topic of Sansa.

"When you put a child in her, what becomes of my daughter? Your children by her and others?" He dismissed Deziel with a look, needing this conversation to be one between family only. He did not want it to spread too far afield from those he trusted. The sun was well risen now and the fresh light showed the earnest worry Harmon had likely nursed through the whole night--every creak on the floors becoming an indication that Oberyn somehow mistreated Ellaria.

"As long as Ellaria wishes to stay with me she is welcome in my bed and at my table. Sansa knows this, and seeks only peace. I do not plan on choosing between them and so far they've not forced my hand."

"And my grandchildren?

"I could no more send them away than I could forgive Elia's murderers. Ellaria should choose her heir, though, if you might bring it up to her while we are here. She has my blessing to choose any of my children, which she also knows." He leveled a serious stare at Harmon then, "Things will begin to move very fast, I expect, and your support will be crucial and so your affairs should be in order as much as is possible."

 

* * *

 

Sansa did not want to get up. She was sore everywhere and so tired that Ellaria had threatened to call Hellholt's maester, Maester Wollam, to see to her. Sansa was eventually coaxed from her bed, though every movement ached and pained her. Too much riding and the prospect of resting here in Hellholt had eroded her resolve to keep a stoic demeanor. At least that's what she told herself as she picked at her breakfast later on.

Lord Uller kept an eye on her as they ate, a bizarre family gathered for the morning meal. Nymeria and Tyene were united as a wall of awkward silence and so Sansa was only too glad to escape to a shaded terrace for the rest of the morning if not the whole day. Ellaria was to go riding with Lord Uller, and Oberyn was reading over suits and trials--leaving Sansa blessedly without any required tasks. So it was on the terrace she sat, alone and breathing in the free air, and for the first time since she'd married Oberyn Martell she found herself seriously contemplating what her future might bring.

Would she play the long game, like Lady Olenna? Play her children as pawns in a score of years? Or would she take the path of her brother and raise banners into bloody war--filling the seven hells with her dead enemies before they took her with them?

Her fingers steadily stitched away as she began to plan her future. She was a lady, not warlike as her sister had been or her husband actually was. There were still avenues open to her though--she had had such harsh teachers in King's Landing, but they hadn't managed to kill her with their lessons. Lessons she had well learned. In her hands the nameday dress for Ellaria's unborn babe had taken shape over the last several weeks when she stole a moment. Now she focused on the burning fires of House Uller edging the cuffs and hemlines of the dress. The tiny shoulders would have Martell speared suns, the most elaborate of which would appear in the middle of the bodice.

The peach fabric looked dipped in blood as she worked on the flames licking up the sleeves.

"Princess Sansa, may I--" Sansa let out a tiny squeak of surprise, jumping up and facing the person who spoke. She wished people wouldn't sneak up on her--she would have to talk to Ser Rhaemon and ask him to warn her somehow. She'd been sought out so rarely, even with Oberyn and Ellaria, that she was still getting used to it when in private moments.

Tyene was staring at her in shock as Sansa tried to piece herself back together again. Her composure was easy enough to find but she felt unable to completely wall up her defenses before Oberyn's daughter. She would need to begin making peace with his children sooner than later if she was to have any peace of her own. Besides--Tyene hadn't been forced to come here. Sansa was fairly sure that Oberyn's children had rarely been forced to do anything and for this she envied them.

"I apolo--" Sansa held up a hand to quiet the blonde girl's words.

"You are not at fault, I," she briefly considered speaking the lie that came so easily to her lips-- _I pricked--I merely stabbed my hand with the needle, my lady--_ but instead she consciously chose the truth. "I startle easily when my mind drifts. I am the one who must apologize, Tyene." The blond girl gave her a funny look but walked to take a seat near Sansa's. Her hair, nearly white but with a filigree of golden strands, and blue eyes betrayed a mother not from Dorne but her eyes had a harshness to them that reminded Sansa of Oberyn.

Ellaria had said that all of his children looked at you with his eyes and Sansa saw what she meant now.

"What do you," Tyene searched for words, her voice gentle even as she interrogated Sansa, "what do you hold over my father that he married you?" Sansa, having barely arranged her embroidery again, set her project down on her lap to meet Tyene's gaze. She was older than Sansa but not by much. This was a startling situation no matter the angle it was examined from and she did not blame her husband's daughter for paranoia or confusion or both.

"I hold nothing over him. Your father saved me when no one else would or could, and kept me far from those who hurt me. I know," she paused to consider her words carefully, "I know I am not your choice for your father's wife," Sansa smiled sadly, "he would not have been my father's choice for my husband." Tyene bristled slightly at the idea that her father wasn't a desirable candidate--such a conundrum, and Sansa well understood it. Sansa's smile changed from sad to wan at Tyene's discomfort.

"Tyene I am five and ten, your father is seven and thirty--more than twice my age with an established family already. My father was Lord of Winterfell, and he wanted me to have a man who would give me all my mother's songs ever promised. A castle or holdfast of my own to manage, bastards either unfathered or out of sight, and gallantry enough to shield me from the sight of violence all my life." She left unsaid that very little of that would come to pass during her marriage to Oberyn Martell.

"You're Ned Stark's daughter?" Sansa nodded, worrying a loose stitch in her gown under Tyene's intense look. The old lies were ready at her tongue--she was the orphan daughter of traitors and deserved little comfort or sympathy, she was already so well cared for despite the failings of her family, no she did not miss her parents for they had been treacherous and in rebellion against the justly crowned Joffrey of the House Baratheon. Of course Sansa no longer wanted sympathy or comfort, so she continued because Tyene let the silence lap at their toes.

"Regardless of what my Lord Father wanted, I am here. My scars will be seen and for the first time in years there are those who do not turn blind eyes to them. All I hold over your father, Tyene, is an expectation of security and that he shields me from blows meant for me until I can shield myself. Whatever else he gives me I thank him for it and," Sansa wet her lips and felt her heart race with nerves, wishing she had the courage to speak these words to her husband, "and I am beginning to love him for it."

Tyene settled back into her chair, her face pensive as Sansa's words were carried away by the breeze.

"What of Ellaria? She is the only mother we've ever known--and I am _not_ calling you _Mother_ ," she added the last with a meaningful glance at Sansa. Sansa twitched a grin in response, glad that they were at least on the same page for she didn't plan on calling the girls 'daughter.'

"Ellaria will not leave if I can help it," she said, picking up her embroidering once more. Tyene cast a speculative eye at the peach silk in Sansa's hands and Sansa held it up so she could see it properly.

"For your newest sister, when she is named. Ellaria told me no one has ever made a nameday outfit for her daughters, and I have missed sewing for the pleasure of gift-giving."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, let me know what you thought of this chapter!


	31. Sansa, Doran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Harmon! More Arianne! Sansa is taking ownership of herself! Doran swears!

Sansa knew what was going on with her body by their fourth day at Hellholt--between Olenna, Cersei, and Ellaria she was well prepared for this. Her blood hadn't come for six weeks, and she'd first been with Oberyn just over two weeks ago. She _should_ have bled by now. Just as her marriage to Oberyn had quickly and radically changed her life, so too would this if it were true. The sickness brought by the babe wasn't yet in full swing--or Sansa's iron grip on her own body was still strong, though she didn't quite trust that estimation--but she felt completely exhausted, even after days of rest. The fatigue is what Lady Olenna had mentioned most about the early days of carrying a babe.

Lord Harmon was kind to her after the surprise of her arrival, and so it was him she asked to bring Maester Wollam to examine her. If this were a false alarm she did not want to trouble Oberyn or Ellaria with it, and if it were true she wanted a moment to herself before taking in their reactions. She told herself as she slowly paced around Lord Harmon's solar that she was not only a princess of Dorne by her marriage to Oberyn but that her brother had died so she might be a princess of the North while he sat as King--she was allowed to consult a maester without her husband's knowledge or presence.

Besides, she owed the news to Lord Harmon--it was his daughter she supplanted as Oberyn's legal wife before the eyes of the Seven rather than the commoner's marriage he'd indulged in with Ellaria. Lord Harmon's grandchildren were never going to inherit anything from Oberyn, and as he was a second son Sansa's own were unlikely to either, but his grandchildren had had the safety of having no trueborn half-siblings. Though Mother would have _viciously_ hated Jon Snow, if she'd borne no children herself, she would have had to raise him up as though he were Father's trueborn son.

"Princess Sansa, Maester Wollam is here. Would you like me to fetch Prince Oberyn for you as well?" Sansa looked up at Lord Harmon, straightening her back a little into perfect posture. She still kept people at a distance if she could--those she didn't know, those who weren't introduced warmly by Oberyn or Ellaria, people who were too friendly after a cool introduction by her husband. Maester Wollam she did not know.

"There is no need at the moment, thank you, but you may stay Lord Harmon." The old man nodded, letting in the maester and securing the door after him. He poured two goblets of wine and passed one to Sansa before sitting at his desk. Sansa took it and held it as a lifeline while Maester Wollam set his tools aside and organized them briefly.

"Princess, I am Measter Wollam--what seems to be the trouble?"

He was younger than his middle age, a maester newly in possession of his chain unlike Maester Luwin or Grandmaester Pycelle, and his smile was kind in his dark face until she turned to set her goblet down. When she turned back the man's smile was stale, shock loosening the muscles in his cheeks, and Sansa swallowed back an apology. Most men here in Dorne grew first sad and then angry when they saw the scars on her back, and the few women who had seen them were so shocked they didn't know where to look.

She remembered the first time Tevira Gryal had seen her, helping her to dress months ago in King's Landing. So far Tevira had been the only one to actually scream--just a single, shaking note in the muggy air of the Capitol, followed by tears and questions of what they'd done to the Prince's Lady. Sansa had had to fight her tongue, then, for it tried to say _Nothing, they've done nothing I did not deserve._ It was untrue to say, for she had not deserved her treatment there at the hands of King Joffrey. Not even once.

Tevira's shock and terror had shown Sansa early on a deep truth about Dorne: Not even lowly serving girls were beaten or whipped without proper cause.

Sansa did not address Maester Wollam's own reaction, instead taking a steadying breath and squaring her shoulders properly.

"I believe I may be with child--I wanted to confirm it better before I told my husband the Prince."

 

* * *

 

"Brood of Blackfyres," Doran muttered to himself as he finished reading the last of the letters given him by Arianne. It had been late in the evening when she'd rode from Sunspear to meet with him, and the news she'd brought would keep him busy until dawn. Luckily--if it might be called that--a man with gout had little cause to sleep through the night with any regularity.

Arianne had met with a crew of smugglers who knew more about Oberyn's dealings in the Capitol than Doran did. There'd been news, of course, through his few spies that Oberyn had married but the lucky woman had been kept well sequestered from public life. _Or Varys wants me to keep from getting comfortable,_ he speculated. He had been waiting for word on the identity of Oberyn's wife and now his daughter had it.

Lady Sansa of the House Stark, eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, late Hand of the King and Lord of Winterfell--and should she get support for it, Queen in the North. When Arianne had told him of the commissioned dire wolves Doran had laughed, his heart light for a moment despite the gravity of the situation.

"Let it not be said that my brother failed to understand, in the end, that second sons must marry well," he'd finally managed to say as his daughter handed him correspondence meant for him or his brother. They concealed next to nothing from one another, mindful to let each other know about their various plans and political movements, and Oberyn's marriage had been a cause for worry over the last few weeks because of the silence surrounding it.

There was a letter from Varys--explaining that Lord Tyrion Lannister had not yet returned from Braavos with word of what the Iron Bank proposed to do for the debts owed them and that perhaps it was time to assert to Braavos that Dorne was an independent state. The Lannisters were in few ways prepared to deal with another rebellion, this time one coming from inaccessible Dorne. They had no money, their soldiers were tired, and Winter was fast coming to Westeros.

News also came from Essos that Daenerys Targaryen had received his missive suggesting a marriage between his son Quentyn and herself--and that the Targaryen woman was seriously considering it. While he hadn't shown Arianne the letter from Varys he did pass this one on to her. The game was still too young to allow her to get into business with his whisperers, for whispers soon quieted when too many listened, but _she_ had been the one to suggest the wedding. Arianne laughed at this letter though, looking up at him with a twinkle to her eyes.

"Two sovereign queens married to landless Dornishmen," she teased, since Quentyn was destined for very little as the second child. The deep hurt of discovering his old plans to give Dorne to her brother had lessened over years--she'd been a mix between his brother's unchecked, violent rage, and her mother's righteousness when she'd confronted him back then. The promise of being queen had been a balm but not a curative. Time had been the cure, but even now the wound could twinge.

The last letter had been the one he'd seen first--the black seal of the Night's Watch known but unfamiliar. Whatever it contained he did not want to know it any sooner than he had to. It was addressed to Oberyn and that was also his worry. What criminals had Oberyn captured and shipped North in some bizarre vigilante justice?

 _Lady Sansa,_ the letter began, and now Doran laughed into his hand how fast news spread to any place but his table. He contained his mirth and finished the letter--fairly innocuous and innocent, the letter of an unloved bastard brother to an unloved trueborn sister, and Doran set it aside to give to his goodsister upon her arrival.

"No letters from Tyene or Nym yet," Arianne muttered, organizing the rest of the papers, her eyes far away as she contemplated all they'd covered this night. She was tired and he ached sometimes that she would grow to be like him. How he wished he could give her peace instead of constant weariness.

"We shall need to keep the news from Oberyn's girls as much as we can. There must be a reason he hasn't told them and we must respect that. In the meantime I will have his rooms prepared here as well as in Sunspear. Have Vaeren prepare my litter though, Arianne. I will return with you to Sunspear, so I might greet my brother's wife with proper ceremony."

His daughter nodded, pecking a kiss to his temple as she left the room. Doran settled back into his chair, reciting a short prayer to the Mother and Warrior to bring his brother home safe and another to the Smith that whatever his brother's intent was that he'd not forgotten their aims. Opening his eyes and looking out his window to the gloomy night, Doran added a prayer to the Maiden that little Sansa Stark might find a place for herself in Dorne and that she might find some peace here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo I love it when people come out of the woodwork to tell me stuff, so if you've got a second you should become part of the conversation! I love hearing back from people! Let me know what you thought of this chapter and where you think things are headed!


	32. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Hellholt! More Sansa being Sansa! More Oberyn being a dork!

"Princess Sansa would you join me on a walk to the Dancing Sand?" Ellaria stood at her elbow, taking her away from the small group of ladies she'd been sewing with. Sansa left her embroidery with Nymeria--who claimed to adore needlecraft as much as she adored her throwing knives and daggerwork. The other young woman had begun to make a concerted effort to spend time with Sansa after her conversation with Tyene. The sisters operated in smooth complement to one another, testing the waters with her and exploring who she was in every subtle interaction.

It was a little chilling to think that she was to be judged from here to Sunspear and her personality reported on to the other six daughters of Oberyn Martell. She would have to make her life among these women in her husband's life--even if he'd been a man who would tolerate a snub of his bastards by his wife, Sansa had vowed to not become her mother. _Even if Mother's censure is why Jon is my only living family save whichever Tullys survived the war._ Petyr Baelish, for all his strange advice and kindness, had likely been mistaken in thinking Arya was alive--and the war had killed all her other brothers since Father had lost his head.

"Are you well? What did Maester Wollam find?" Though she'd tried to be discreet news traveled fast it seemed for Oberyn fell into step with them as they made their way to the small, strange courtyard designed by one of Ellaria's ancestors. The wind danced over and through the stone wall, painting temporary masterpieces in the fine dusting of dyed sand left there by visitors. Many Lords and Ladies of the Hellholt had been bastards and the courtyard's name was a playful reference to that. Ellaria took a handful of sapphire blue sand and trailed it behind her on the smooth stones, letting the grains slip through her fingers as they walked to the wide bench in the middle of the expansive space.

Sansa let Oberyn sit but gently took her hand from him so she could gather her thoughts. Ellaria had noticed they could distract her handily with kisses and caresses--and while she appreciated the use of such knowledge sometimes she did not want to be distracted now. Ellaria sat next to Oberyn, watching as Sansa started to slowly pace. The cut on her forearm twinged as she crossed her arms in front of her defensively.

"I didn't mean to--and I know that it is too late to change my mind--but I wanted to be sure--" there was the beginning of a grin on her husband's face but he mercifully kept silent. Sansa cleared her throat, remembering her shock when Maester Wollam had confirmed her suspicion.

A spoonful of her blood stirred into one of his strange potions, the color in the jar changing from a delicate sea green then to maroon and then to perfect clarity, and he'd given her a bright smile. Sansa had been pacing then too, watching him mixing and grinding his supplies while Lord Harmon had kept a wary eye on her. The cut on her forearm had been securely bandaged with a healing salve, and she pressed her fingertips to the wound as Maester Wollam went about his business. At his smile though, she'd had to sit down quickly, weakly accepting the goblet of wine that Lord Harmon pressed into her nearly limp fingers. A soft congratulations had passed the Lord of the Hellholt's lips, his big hand warm on her shoulder.

"I asked Maester Wollam to--to--just check," Gods this was difficult, she couldn't help but think as she rubbed at her belly. Oberyn's lips were peeled back in a jubilant grin and Ellaria's face was struggling to keep the same look at bay, and that pushed Sansa to finish her sentence.

"There was supposed to be blood. I mean, I was supposed to bleed--nearly two weeks ago now. And I've just been so tired, I wanted to know if I was sick or if I had a babe in me."

"And is there?" Oberyn's voice was tender, almost too soft as he asked with bated breath. Despite his tone he looked like he was being held to the bench by chains as his muscles tensed and strained. She would have thought that the magic of this announcement would have been dulled by the number of times he had to have heard it, but apparently not. Sansa reminded herself of the maester's words--she could lose the child in the next few weeks, but if she made it another two months then she could consider herself for the most part safe. He'd told her the symptoms of miscarriage, given her advice on how to conduct herself in the heat, and then been on his way with a kind smile.

"Y--yes. Yes." Oberyn leapt up at her with a happy cry, taking her up in his arms and swung her around a full two turns before sitting down and laying her head in Ellaria's lap.

"Sweet lover, my sweet lover. I am so happy," he said as Ellaria kissed first her own fingertips and then put her fingers to Sansa's, petting her hair afterwards. Oberyn rested his head on Ellaria's shoulder, gazing down at her adoringly. Sansa giggled at his antics but relaxed against them both, humming happily when Oberyn stroked her hip and stomach, and turned her face towards Ellaria and pressed her forehead to the woman's belly.

The wind played at their clothing, fluttering hems and their hair, as the afternoon sun climbed towards evening. They made themselves comfortable and quietly cuddled together, ignoring the world around them as the winds twisted through the sand. Sansa hadn't yet spent much time in this courtyard and it was serene in its severe way. Dorne had two places of punishment: a place she'd heard of during a trial in Sandstone called Ghaston Gray, and here in Hellholt. Hellholt was stern, like Winterfell, for it was the seat of executions. It made sense that such a place would have stoic entertainments.

"Prince Oberyn--" Ser Daemon strolled in, leaning on one of the door posts briefly before actually seeing Sansa and quickly straightening, "Lord Uller is to sit for supper soon. He asks if you will attend." Sansa's stomach fluttered as she watched a silent conversation between Oberyn and Ser Daemon. One of her husband's lovers but one who had not accompanied Oberyn to King's Landing for he'd heard it was a bad place for bastards. He was also one of Dorne's greatest swords which easily explained why he and Oberyn had been drawn together.

"We will attend, give us a moment. Father will hold serving supper for a few minutes," Ellaria answered for them, stroking her fingers through Sansa's hair and not looking up at Ser Daemon. While Oberyn had forgiven the younger man for his reluctance to join the Prince's Host, Ellaria nursed a hint of anger still.

This was the family her child was going to be brought into:

Nine elder siblings, all bastard by birth but trueborn by treatment, and a trio of parents who had a complicated dynamic of affection, love, and duty--complete with lovers and gaps in age and a sometimes urgent warmth in her belly when she looked at Ellaria.

"Prin--"

"Leave us, Daemon, we will be there shortly. My love has told me something this afternoon that makes me incredibly happy and I will savor it," Oberyn replied in Dornish Valyrian, his voice slow and soft as his eyes never left Sansa. When Ser Daemon cleared his throat and left, her husband's eyes turned mischievous.

"Ny ghae Oberyn e mazmo Nymeros Martell, ep ny ghae yauvala. Ny nae Sansa e mazmo Nymeros Martell ep Stark ep-zhatas ny yauvalahat."

_I am Oberyn of the House Nymeros Martell, and I am happy. You are Sansa of the House Nymeros Martell and Stark and have made me happy._

"Naii vaehr zhataz ii yauvala anvan," Sansa replied in High Valyrian, her mouth stumbling over the vowels. _We will all be very happy_. It was becoming more and more clear that she would need to learn the Dornish dialect, but for the moment High Valyrian was close enough to be understood.

"You learned High Valyrian from a Maester who hailed from...the Reach. Oh but he must have had _such_ a time in Winterfell," Oberyn said, perking up as he helped Ellaria and Sansa stand up. Sansa gave him a quizzical look while Ellaria rolled her eyes and shook her head in a practiced way that had her curls bouncing around her face.

"I have an ear for--"

"You have your whole life to show off to us, Oberyn, and we are late for dinner," she said steering them towards the dining hall. Along the way they passed Tyene and Nymeria who turned to walk behind them. Thankfully neither girl curtsied, as Sansa had asked them to avoid unless absolutely required. Sansa felt a brief pang at having abandoned Nymeria to the ladies of Hellholt with her half-finished nameday project but the older girl had a smile for her despite it.

Sansa rubbed her thumb along Oberyn's forefinger where she could reach, his ring cool against her skin. He was a show-off but why shouldn't he be? He was accomplished in diplomacy, war, philosophy, and poisons. Why not add an ear for accents as well?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well did that live up to everyone's expectations for the announcement? Too many nerves? Too much Dornish? Do tell!
> 
>  
> 
> ...Also for those who want to read such a thing, I've put up a deleted scene from this story up on Tumblr. The blog name is redqueenofwesteros and the post is tagged appropriately if you want to read it or anything ;)


	33. Sansa, Tyrion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we have more Sansa, more morning sickness, and...Tyrion! (because of plot reasons)

As though waiting for her grand announcement, her babe began controlling her stomach within the week. She grew used to Ellaria giving her bits of bread to slowly chew on to keep her bile where it was supposed to stay, and Nymeria or Tyene usually had a flask of cool tea to settle her stomach if she smelled something the child disagreed with while entertaining the other ladies.

Their visit was longer here so they might properly reequip before making a long push towards Salt Shore and later Vaith. There were few places to find shelter or rest in the desert between--and here it showed that her Dornish companions were people of the desert just as much as her family had been of the ice. Where her father's men had worn sturdy boots with good stockings, warm leggings beneath their breeches, and the thickest furs they could afford her husband's people had strategies for carrying enough water for the men and horses while also keeping the poison of the sun from themselves.

Sansa dreaded the idea of trying to keep a horse under herself, though, as the day of their departure drew nearer. The utter exhaustion was getting easier to bear, but it was replaced by a different weakness as the most innocent of foods upset her stomach.

When the babe tried to turn her against a cut of rabbit she had caused Ellaria to break out in peels of laughter at Sansa's calm reaction. First had been the heave of her body, trying to rid itself of everything at the mere thought of the dish--and Sansa had steeled herself to keep the food in. She was pale and slight enough among her Dornish counterparts, she did not want to be presented in Sunspear as a piteous, malnourished wreck.

Oberyn's daughters had each made noises of trying to help her from the table so she might throw up in peace--but she'd silenced them with a brief shake of her head.

Second had been when she'd told the child how this evening would go by cutting tiny bites of the rabbit and chewing it slowly. Each time her stomach heaved she bit down on the meat and willed herself against it. In the mornings she would allow the child as much fussiness as it could ever want--but this was the evening meal, and she was not going to let an unborn babe do this to her. Joffrey had made her look at beheadings and corpses enough--perfectly roasted rabbit would _not_ best her. Not here. When the roiling calmed for a moment she would swallow her bite and bite down on another.

Third, if the food did not settle properly, she would mutter to the child in the sternest voice she remembered from her mother. _You are a Princess of Dorne and the North, I will have you act like one. This is your supper and you will like it_ , was along the lines of her standard lecture and was also the command that had Ellaria laughing.

But all this took place with solid ground, on old stone floors, beneath her. It was the idea of being on a horse from dawn to dusk that made her wary. Beyond that feeling of unease was a greater anxiety of meeting the rest of Oberyn's family, people she was hearing more of as she got to know both Nymeria and Tyene as well as Ellaria and Oberyn themselves. In Sunspear she would meet Oberyn's eldest, Obara, the Gods' attempt at making an exact copy of Oberyn Martell botched when the man fathered a daughter instead of a son. Sansa could only hope that such words meant good things in regard to herself.

Above the prospect of meeting Oberyn's children--and she believed the elder ones would be easier to win over than the younger ones from Ellaria's words about her daughters--there was also meeting Prince Doran. He'd been in the books Maester Luwin and Septa Mordane had had her read. Though Oberyn was the more famous in tales and near-myths, he stood firm on the ground provided him by his elder brother from what she'd read years ago.

He was why if the Lannisters ever tried to steal her from her husband the gold lions on every Lannister banner would be blotted out with their own blood and their bodies would be buried in unmarked graves without even Silent Sisters to lay their arms upon their bellies properly. Oberyn didn't have to tell her this about his brother, no one did--it had been in her books, plain as day if remembered by a girl no longer thumbing through looking for tales of handsome knights.

Nymeria assured her that Doran would love her--and Sansa had tried to give her most believing smile in return. She would see this man and get to know him before she believed anything, just as she'd learned Oberyn before she'd ever given herself to him.

 

* * *

 

Thoughts of Sansa consumed many of Tyrion's free hours during his voyage to Braavos. It was six weeks in the fastest ship owned by the Crown--and newly-wedded Bronn brought with him his quiet, simple wife. _Can't risk getting this marriage annulled now since your sister doesn't have your head my friend,_ Bronn had said but there had been a certain worried set to his mouth as they glanced over at sweet, simple Lollys Stokeworth. Accidents happened and ladies broke their pretty necks all the time when it was convenient for those around them--just as babes stopped breathing in the night, and if it hadn't been so shocking Tyrion would have laughed at Bronn.

The man had done as Tyrion himself had done--gotten too emotionally involved with the poor highborn lady he'd been married to. For all that Bronn would murder a child before its mother's eyes if he was paid enough he'd called the various members of Joffrey's Kingsguard as he'd seen them--picking out and naming the rapists, the child-touchers, and the woman-beaters. To be sure Bronn sold what he was good at, but he had a good sense of what was right and wrong and better eyes to see it in others.

It was just that Bronn ignored what he saw when it was set side-by-side with money. Though he was a lord now, Bronn would always be a sellsword at heart. Tyrion liked him for it--he was truthful about his personality. Vicious at times but truthful.

Lady Lollys Stokeworth was likely high on her family's list of candidates for a fall from a horse, the fall being so far prevented only by the fact that she had a positive phobia of them. She and Bronn had walked to the docks rather than ride, and Bronn had had to calm her as they walked past the beasts to the rowboat.

Now well underway on their voyage he and Bronn would converse quietly as friends ought, laughing occasionally, and watched Lollys happily pace across the deck of the ship in a pattern only she herself knew. Tyrion was reminded of his simple cousin, how the boy had been dressed in Lannister colors and treated as equal in blood to any of the other cousins. Lollys' weeks-old babe was below, with a Septa and wet nurse, and had only been spared death because Bronn was partial to having a child to raise.

Tyrion couldn't look at the child for a number of reasons. The first being it was named for him, which gave rise to a complicated mix of pride and standoffishness in him. The second was the thought of his own luck with women and life of late.

Shae had all but disappeared, while Sansa was in the arms of the Red Viper of Dorne. Shae who he should have run away with or sent someplace where he might know the location and state of her home. Sansa who he had grown fond of in ways he hadn't been prepared for. Though Sansa wasn't simple--he'd never thought it of her save for the terrifying moment months ago on the day of their annulment--there was something about her that reminded him of Lollys' plight. Being shunned and passed from man to man, her trauma ignored by all save a select few who could do little to help her through it.

Between himself and Bronn there was also the disparity of current circumstances, of course--Bronn seemed determined to slowly grow higher, playing his hand with effortless cunning, while Tyrion continued to fall harder from every height he flew to.

Two years ago Bronn had been a common sellsword drinking deeply of bad ale at a random inn along the road--now he was a knight with his own sigil, a highborn wife who would never act against him, and even a bastard babe to raise up as his own should he wish it. Two years ago Tyrion had been a philandering lord of his father's shitpipes--and now he'd thought he'd found love with Shae, had been Hand of the King, had married one of the highest born ladies in Westeros, and he had little now to show for it. Shae was gone, his father was Hand, and he'd sent Sansa away on a naive hope. Even the dream task of being lord of someone's shitpipes was taken from him.

And now dreams of Sansa haunted his nights and thoughts of her consumed his days. He'd wanted to do right by her and been faced with the fact that what was right for her wasn't a wide or kind field to choose from. There'd been the option of keeping her with him and getting children on her--she would be sent with those children to Casterly Rock, the first boy raised up to be Jaime's heir once the man left the Kingsguard and the others given to Winterfell. The other option had been to gamble on an unpredictable Dornishman.

Most of all through this Tyrion's mind returned to the bloody sheet presented the morning following the wedding. He'd seen a many bedding sheets and knew their grisly nature--the blood hadn't shocked him nearly so badly as the sight of Sansa as she sat at Oberyn's elbow. Tyrion _hadn't_ seen many women after they'd been raped--forced on their wedding night by a husband taking his due--but the Stark girl had fit the bill. She looked to have slept only hours if at all given her red-rimmed eyes, flinching when her husband touched her, and her voice from between bitten lips was thready from what he could only term as fear given the rest of her symptoms. After that morning she had been kept ensconced in either Prince Oberyn's chambers or surrounded by Dornishmen who scowled at Lannister cloaks.

Up until his arrest and trial he had seen very little of Sansa, but after that horrible breakfast he was reluctantly glad. He had given her to Prince Oberyn, to Dorne, in a bid to save her from such savagery--only to speed her doom of a painful bedding to consummate her marriage to a stranger. _At least she is away from King's Landing, in a new sort of prison than before and well-away from my family._

These thoughts gave him little comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So let me know what you all think. Poor Tyrion, operating under assumptions, am I right?? Don't worry, he'll be set to rights later on in the story.


	34. Sansa, Dany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glad you all liked Tyrion (I think?), thank you for reading!
> 
> This chapter features: More Sansa! More Tevira! A surprise guest star!

After a stay of just under a fortnight, they departed from the Hellholt--the savage splendor of Uller banners following the brightly colored ones of the Martells. Through the day Sansa mentally worked on a bastard House sigil for Oberyn's children--he had far too many for them to go without a banner of their own, she decided, and it would give them purpose to serve House Martell as well as House Uller. Though the Karstarks had proven untrustworthy for her brother, Sansa's thoughts were on both them and House Blackfyre. A mix between a cadet and bastard House seemed safest--for Oberyn's daughters and her own by him. There would be no sons, even as she ached for one to give to him, for he did not even allude to stillborn boys between his healthy girls.

At their first camp she had quickly stitched out an outline of what a sigil might look like--a yellow sun on a red field with yellow flames below--and carefully laid the design to the side so no one would see it. Sansa wondered if it were trite of her to think of it as the sigil for House Hellspear or Hellsnake--so often bastard Houses were given reversed colors or referential names, but rarely both. Here she was thinking to tie two of Dorne's great Houses by the bastards they shared between them in both name and symbol.

She hadn't come up with any better names, though, even after a full day of riding.

Sansa had had ample time to think for she'd been, for the first time on their journey from King's Landing to Sunspear, alone on her horse. It meant when she couldn't control her stomach--thankfully only once today after they'd departed--then she could take care of herself without requiring too much assistance. Dawn was the slowest of the horses in the company, most of the knights and ladies choosing the native sand horses against the breeds favored outside of Dorne, but given the heat the party moved at a leisurely pace.

Oberyn rode at the lead of the company, his posture relaxed but correct as he led them down a road that took them south toward the Summer Coast. They would spend two or three days on the road, he'd estimated to her during breakfast. A day would be spent in the town of Salt Shore before heading north once again to Vaith. Beside Oberyn rode Ser Daemon who carried the Martell banner for the prince. Behind them were Sansa and Ellaria and the rest of their small household, followed in turns by the other remaining bannermen's parties.

Ellaria, tranquility in her every movement, sat her horse with ease--a lovely gelding from Lord Harmon's stables with the coloring of winter--and her composure helped Sansa keep her own. The gait of the horse had given her child great delight in tormenting her--succeeding only once in expelling the contents of her stomach--and Sansa hadn't felt so physically miserable in a long while. She welcomed it when Ser Deziel and Ser Daemon helped her down from Dawn's back at the end of the day's ride--though she had had to pull up her courtesies against Ser Daemon's brief attempt at an advance.

 _I am allowed to have him--but I do not want him,_ Sansa thought as he too fell back on courtesies and made his apologies. He was a handsome man, much more akin to her in age, but Sansa was smarter now than to listen to her heart when it sang of a man's beautiful face. Besides if she were to take and share a lover other than her husband she wasn't entirely sure she would take one so lightly placed in Oberyn's sphere. If she were to share a lover with Oberyn she would choose Ellaria.

Sansa's own honesty didn't manage to shock her, even though months ago she would have blushed a fiery red at seriously considering the thought of bedding a woman. The heat in Ellaria's glances rivalled Oberyn's own and in such close quarters since her marriage she found herself growing closer to the other woman more than she might ever grow close to a man again.

Oberyn was a force unto himself, speaking his mind plainly and often, and Sansa knew she'd grown spoiled by his vivacity. Ellaria had told her, plain as day the morning after Oberyn had bedded Sansa, that _once you've had Oberyn Martell you're never quite the same woman. He makes you realize all the things your lovers should have been_. Sansa, over the last month, had come to understand what Ellaria truly meant aside from the art of lovemaking.

There was a reason a whore had loved his daughter Obara enough to keep the babe, to give the child a name its father might recognize.

There was a reason a highborn lady of Essos had done done the same-- this same reason was why a Septa had endured her shame and brought Tyene into the world, and why a pirate captain had marched into the halls of the palace of Sunspear to present a bastard to its father.

There was a reason why a fierce woman such as Ellaria Sand had allowed him to put five children in her.

Sansa knew, having watched Oberyn talk quietly with Ser Daemon through the day, it was because of his honesty. Honesty in what he wanted and what he did--honesty about his life and the lives of those close to him. The other people who he'd bedded might give different answers, but Sansa couldn't help but feel that this was the truth of him. It was also why he was feared by those who had held her captive in King's Landing--why when faced with the towering rage he kept so careful a leash on they had engineered an attempt to kill him.

How better for Lord Tywin and Queen Cersei to rid themselves of threats they perceived than to weave these threats together? Accusing Tyrion had been all Cersei--but naming Ser Gregor Clegane as his opponent in combat had been a joint effort. Oberyn had too good a head on his shoulders to be drawn out by the mere presence of Clegane in King's Landing--but an opportunity to fight him, kill him while protected by the law, was too great to pass up. Too bad he promised not only Ellaria but Sansa herself that he would live, else they might have succeeded.

Idly she wondered as Oberyn draw Ellaria into a dance around the campfire, while Ser Deziel and Ser Taeron sang, if the North would support her if she ever returned there with Oberyn on her arm. As a second son he came with little beside his wealth and family name and despite how hot his blood ran there was a core of ice in him. It took someone from the North to see it in him but it was there was something in Oberyn that only Northmen could understand. His child by her would likely be a girl but war changed the face of the map so often.

 _The Mormonts_ _present their girls as their heirs even now,_ her heart whispered as her child tried to protest the stew she'd had for supper. Though it was still far too small to comfort it yet, she put her hand on her belly nonetheless. Between the Mormont tradition and her Dornish husband she allowed herself to entertain the idea of someday--a score of years hence perhaps--riding North and taking Winterfell back, son or no.

If she were in the business of creating cadet houses then perhaps Oberyn and his brother would consent to the creation of one for her children--Sansa would never take from Oberyn's children that he was their father, but there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Even one raised in the Dornish desert.

 

* * *

 

Dany could not turn her thoughts from the letter she'd been sent in addition to the portrait of Prince Quentyn Martell. He was, according to Ser Jorah, alike in looks to many Dornishmen but in honesty a little plain in comparison to his father and uncle. The letter, signed by both Prince Doran and Princess Arianne, spoke of a match between a son who had been raised to expect nothing and herself a woman who had been raised to expect everything.

Jorah had said she would not be able to rule Westeros by merely landing at the Capitol and taking it as her own--and she was indeed learning here in Slaver's Bay that taking a grand jewel of a city did not mean the obedience of the region. Dorne, Prince Doran wrote, was willing to be the first of her steppingstones into Westeros. It was a place she could land soldiers and according to Ser Barristan had been the only region of the Seven Kingdoms that _deigned_ to accept Targaryen rule rather than lose or surrender on the field of battle. The Dornish were to this day rarely forced to do anything they did not wish to.

The Lord Prince of Sunspear had been implicit in his letter that--should Ser Jorah be wrong and she managed to take control of Westeros through only the taking of King's Landing--if she snubbed Dorne now then she would be queen of only six kingdoms. The number did not matter to Dany so much as the ease and longevity of conquest. Those in Slaver's Bay feared her Unsullied even more than they feared her dragons but Dorne had willingly and _easily_ resisted two centuries of Targaryen dragons _and_ soldiers.

Rejecting this offer meant Dorne would resist her ably should she come there as conqueror rather than ally. She would break entire armies in their deserts before the knees of so much as a whore's bastard would bend--and in the end she would be queen of only sand and the salty blood of the dead.

And so Prince Quentyn's portrait showed her a fourth option of conquest than had been tried so far. In Astapor she had tricked with the offer of a dragon; in Yunkai she had balanced the loyalty of sellswords; and in Meereen she had won the people, but what would it be like to conquer with a welcomed ally at her side? A true ally--not one drawn by her accomplishments as Ser Jorah was; not one drawn by duty as Ser Barristan was; and not one drawn by her beauty as Daario was. An ally was one who considered your value in the same measure and weights that you considered theirs--and Prince Doran seemed to be such a man.

In a quiet moment with Jorah this morning, as she'd been staring at the portrait and rubbing absently at the lovebite Daario had left on her knee the previous night, her precious knight spoke of a Dornish tradition she was utterly floored by.

"In Dorne they do not all subscribe to the the rule that men and women must belong only to one another in marriage, Khaleesi, nor do they allow a man to rule his wife's holdings. Unlike marriage here, or anywhere else I've heard of, if you take Prince Quentyn as your husband he will not seek to take your power from you. And...if you are honest about...yourself," he still did not approve of her affair with Daario but kept his counsel about it, "then you'll find Prince Quentyn to have been raised to be understanding and accepting, and that his people are of the same bent. When I left Westeros the Prince's uncle, Prince Oberyn, had fathered at least seven bastards and planned to raise them with his lover as though they were his trueborn children."

Jorah didn't press her for a response but she stilled her thumb over the bruise Daario had given her. She wanted her people to be free--she wanted all of Slaver's Bay to be free--but she wanted Westeros more. It was a bitter wine to swallow, even without speaking the words, but she wanted Westeros even more than all this without having seen it even once. Jorah's words of Dorne told her about the realm she was trying to reclaim--Westeros would be more of the same that she was finding here, with the slavery called a different name.

If she started in Dorne, _with_ Dorne, she would at least not have a civil war on her hands. Such an arrangement would count heavily in her favor she knew it her heart of hearts.

"Summon Ser Barristan, Gray Worm, Daario Naharis, and Missandei," she said suddenly, startling Jorah from his own contemplation of Prince Quentyn's plain face, and she stood to clear her desk so she might write a letter in her own hand to Prince Doran. She would have to figure out how to hold her power here in Slaver's Bay--or at least accept and act on the hard decision to leave the slavemongers to their dark business--whilst also building her power in Westeros. It was a decision she would make today, even if she had to climb on Drogon's back and deliver her letter in person.

While her last letter had begun, in acknowledgment and reply, with Valar dohaeris, this one would begin, in command and control, with Valar morgulis _._

 _The Targaryens flew from Valyria to Dragonstone and later from Dragonstone to Westeros without thought to how their power might wax and wane in the lands they left behind,_ she thought, _perhaps it is time I became less a queen and more a Targaryen._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cowers from pitchforks, squeaking out*
> 
> How did you like the chapter??


	35. Sansa, Doran, Obara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know the last chapters left some of you a little leery, but don't worry! ...please! This chapter is actually a first, I think, for this story in that there are three different POVs in it. Enjoy!

Though their traveling days until now had been quick--towns passing before her eyes faster than she could even remember the names it seemed--the desert between the Hellholt and Salt Shore was a different animal entirely. Oberyn proceeded carefully and slowly, never overtiring the horses or leaving everyone under the sun for too long--Maester Wollam had said that this was perhaps the greatest danger for Sansa's child, and that he would accompany them until Vaith, which was likely beginning to cool under the breath of the Dornish Winter.

Those in the dungeons of the Hellholt were rarely in need of a maester, he said to Sansa on the second morning by way of explanation. She had been putting her scarf on her head, twisting it so it covered her neck and as much of her cheeks as she could stand. She hadn't quite mastered pinning it to the embroidered cowl so that it stayed on her head, instead usually asking Oberyn or Ellaria to help her.

She'd given him a polite smile, her mother's stomach twisting and trying to find fault with the breakfast Tevira had laid out for her just after dawn. Maester Luwin had been a kindly old man, and she knew in her heart that this man was probably also kindly--but the streak of paranoia left in her insisted on caution, so when he offered to help her with the cowl she'd gently declined and asked Tevira to do it after Maester Wollam left.

Tevira was from Skyreach, the third daughter of a wealthy merchant and had been a handmaiden at the castle when the host had originally traveled North. They'd stayed three days there to prepare for the push through Prince's Pass, according to the girl, and she'd taken care of Ellaria Sand's rooms so well that the woman had informed all involved she couldn't do without her. Sansa had to admit that Tevira was everything she expected of a handmaiden--a soft spoken, efficient worker who never pulled her hair, who anticipated her every need before she thought it. She had dark hazel eyes that lit up gold in sunlight, and jet black hair that fell in perfect ringlets down her back.

When Sansa was without Oberyn or Ellaria she leaned--probably more than she should--on Tevira. She was growing to like Dorne, but she did not yet _understand_ Dorne. Tevira _did_ though and that sometimes made all the difference.

"He means no harm, Princess. Many people in Dorne try to be kind to forei--to those from outside of Dorne--because we do not want them harmed by our lands," Tevira said softly as she made sure that Sansa's clothing was securely in place before stepping back to admire her work.

"Have you ever been to Sunspear?" such a question seemed normal enough--some people in the North saw Winterfell only a few times in their life.

"Several times, though it has been more than a year since the last. My father and elder sisters sell gems there to Tyroshi traders. You will like it, Princess, I think--though I've never been to the palace, of course!"

A palace--not a keep, but a palace. Just as in the songs and stories of her childhood, she was a princess being taken to her husband's home to live in a palace. Sansa's heart ached and she had to blink away tears. After she'd given up on the dreams of such a life, after she'd endured more than most could ever think to bear, she was to get what her girlish heart had desired. Sansa wished it weren't so, that she would live anywhere else than a palace--

"Of course, we might live at the Water Gardens. I've only been once, when I was very small, but they're a happy place, Princess Sansa," Tevira said, moving to fasten their trunks shut before pinning the tent flap open. Sansa smoothed her hand down her hips and walked outside with Tevira following close behind. They would be leaving soon and she wanted to spend a few moments alone brushing Dawn. The horse had been wasted on the Caswells, and she wasn't even an expert on horseflesh as her husband prided himself on being.

" Sansa, there you are," Oberyn strode towards them, his arms already opening to embrace her despite the ten paces still to cover. Sansa smiled and walked quickly to him, whispering answers to his quiet questions about her wellbeing. She loved the smell of him--spicy smoke and herbs with a tang of sweat and oiled steel--and pressed her nose to his shoulder as he held her. She just loved _him_.

He had left her side well before dawn, leaving her to cuddle with Ellaria as the sun rose and lit the tent. Tevira had been cautious entering with breakfast, murmuring that Prince Oberyn had given word that he wouldn't be joining them this morning for their meal. Ellaria had whispered that one of Oberyn's favorite activities was to spar and train for an hour or more right around dawn--at least here in Dorne it was his habit--and Sansa would get used to it. He had his favorite sparring partner back, after all, since Daemon Sand had met them at the Hellholt.

Now though Oberyn loosened his arms around her, kissing the top of her head, then her forehead, then her eyelids and cheeks, murmuring words of love and affection as he did so.

"Shall we go?" Ellaria's voice was warm and playful with affection as she came up behind Oberyn, sliding a hand down his back while her other rested on the subtle bump on her belly.

 

* * *

 

Their formal greeting would be later that afternoon but first he wanted to meet his goodsister, Doran decided as he watched Oberyn's procession make their way through the city. The bright banners of Martell, Dalt, Uller, and many others fluttered in the mid-morning breezes, the heads of the riders nearly uniformly dark. One rider, close to the front of the group, sported hair the color of the Martell sun. Arianne sat on the railing next to him, one hand on the back of his wheeled chair, a faint smile on her face as their people cheered the return of their Prince. On Doran's lap was a gilt tray covered in black silk, a sigil necklace laid out on it. It had been his sister's, wrapped up until now in Martell griefcolor deep within the jewel vault of the palace, and had come to Sunspear with Eddard Stark some twenty years ago. Neither he nor Oberyn had been able to bear giving it to another woman of Martell blood but Doran felt this to be fitting.

Sansa Stark's tale resembled his sister's--and where they'd been unable to save Elia, the Stark girl was mercifully alive and well. He did not fully approve of his brother's decision to _marry_ the girl, but if he'd saved her life by doing it then at least he was serious in his concern. Behind these thoughts lurked the idea of perhaps throwing Dorne's support behind his new goodsister and the claim of _Queen_ that her brother's death had precipitated.

As they watched the company draw closer to the palace, Doran's heart did ache for Sansa Stark. Her father had been a good man, though he'd only met him twice. The first had been when Eddard Stark had arrived with his sister's body, tearfully admitting that she'd wanted the rites of the Seven instead of the Old Gods, and the second when the man had accompanied Jon Arryn to deliver Elia's bones. How Doran had wished, in the years ensuing, that Eddard had pressed his claim to the Iron Throne instead of the Stormlander butcher who had sat it nearly twenty years.

Tywin Lannister's actions against Elia would have been rightly punished by the stern laws of the North--and Oberyn's demand that the man and his cronies be sent to Sunspear in chains or pieces would have been honored fully. Instead Tywin Lannister had murdered another queen and her unborn babe when it suited him--Doran had had word from his emissary in Volantis that House Maegyr writhed in grief at the death of their missing daughter, and that Volantii grief was eerily similar to Dornish grief.

 _I understand your belief and practice of thoroughness, Lord Tywin, but I think you have lost your edge over the years. Lions may have claws but their teeth still fall from old age. Even the meekest child might yet kill a man with a spear._ Tywin Lannister was famed for his destruction of House Reyne--how even the slightest cousins of the House had been killed. Doran held a grudging respect for this but Tywin had been committing errors more and more often in recent years.

Letting the Stark girl live had perhaps been the first of them--letting her live long enough to marry into Dorne would not be the last but it was certainly the gravest of late. In honesty Doran could not believe Tywin's stupidity, especially since twenty years ago the man had understood that 'keys' be damned heirs of great Houses were threats to be dealt with efficiently. For the fact that she'd borne children of Targaryen blood Elia had been murdered.

Looking down at her sigil, commissioned by their mother when she'd turned eight, Doran's satisfaction was alarmingly heated. Lord Tywin had, instead of doing the smart but brutal thing, nursed a viper at his breast and then in a blindingly idiotic move gave the snakeling to the father of snakes right as its venom came in.

Sansa Stark's face was pale, her features still unable to be made much of at the distance, and she looked like a flame on her dark horse--hair red as blood, her riding cloak finely dyed with orange and red, and a bright blue scarf pooled about her neck. After twenty years he had finally begun to have the pieces fall as he wanted them, and now Dorne was tinder and kindling that she would set into a blaze.

"Lord Tywin should never have let her live," Arianne said softly, her eyes on the sigil that he now picked up and examined in the light. Mother had had it made with Valyrian steel and it shone brightly in his hands.

"No, he should not have. Not when the last Targaryen treats with us for an alliance, not when Volantis experiences convulsions such as Dorne did twenty years ago but without men such as Oberyn and myself at their helm, not when the Iron Bank begins to consider calling in debts, and certainly not when his own granddaughter gives us a legitimate path into King's Landing should all our other plans fail. I do wonder if my goodsister will help me educate him before the end."

 

* * *

 

Tyene had written to her in secret, wanting Obara to make her peace with Father's actions before having to be faced with them. She had schooled her face into ignorance whenever Uncle Doran had spoken of Father's arrival, after that letter, and made no mention of the woman Father had taken to wife. Oberyn Martell was as inscrutable in motive as his brother was and those who thought otherwise were fools. Those who thought his children were any different were also fools.

 _She looks like vengeance, even as her words are sweet, and she carries two daggers with her even though she hardly knows their use. Mother and Father are beginning to teach her though_ , Tyene had said. There was the faint comfort that Ysa Ellaria wasn't set aside--Father's heart still burned for the woman despite his marriage. That this girl, Sansa, was younger than half of Obara's sisters did not trouble her. Father had bedded squires and handmaidens enough that it wasn't shocking he would be drawn to the girl should she have a pretty face.

Still there was worry lining his face as Father led his family into their set of chambers. At his left was his wife, at his right his paramour--one woman his before the eyes of the Seven and one woman his before the eyes of his children. Princess Sansa was a perfect lady--even more elegant than little Myrcella Baratheon had been upon arrival to Sunpsear--though Obara could tell that the comfortable clothing of Dorne was still new upon her shoulders.

"Obara, daughter," Father gently let go of Sansa and Ellaria's hands and strode across the room to take her cheeks between his palms and kiss her forehead. He slipped an arm around her shoulders and presented those who accompanied him. _Ever the mummer, Father is_ , Obara thought as her sisters were presented along with Daemon Sand.

"And Ellaria and I would like you to meet Sansa, Obara. We married in King's Landing four months ago, shortly after I arrived there." Obara inclined her head, never one for a curtsy, and murmured a greeting to the girl.

"Princess Sansa I am honored to meet you."

"Please--please do not call me Princess, Obara, I would prefer--" Sansa began and Obara's acceptance of the girl quickly began to evaporate and she spat out without care for who heard her--

"I shall never call you _Mother_ , Princess Sansa, do not ask it of me." Despite the venom in her words the girl appeared unaffected, taking a moment to compose a response. In the corner of her eye she saw that Father's face was hard but that he understood her ire and would not punish her for it. Oberyn Martell rarely punished severely in the face of honesty in conversation.

"I do not ask for anything save this-- unless you call my husband _Prince_ I do not seek to hold higher esteem than Ellaria does among you or your sisters. Unless courtesy and etiquette absolutely demand it, do not call me Princess." Her voice was even in tone, and Obara remembered Tyene's words. _She looks like vengeance, even as her words are sweet._

Though Father's new wife was younger than even Tyene, Obara looked at her once again. Father had not married a slip of a girl, even if that was the facade she gave the world to keep it at bay, Father had married a woman grown. Everyone waited, watching her work out how she would feel about the new arrangement--Daemon's presence obviously meant that Father still shared his bed freely, but Ellaria's face indicated that the days of her wandering might possibly be over if she had Sansa to turn her attentions to.

"If I am to call you Sansa, you must call me Bara," she finally said, getting a twitch of a hug from her father before he let her go and walked back to his wife and lover. Obara snapped into action, giving directions to the rooms Uncle Doran had prepared for everyone. The formal greeting was in only a few hours and no doubt everyone would appreciate a cool bath and change of clothing. All of Sunspear had heard rumors of what Prince Oberyn had gotten up to in King's Landing and Obara was now sure that they would be in for the shock of their lives to see him with a wife.

They would also be elated, she decided after pestering Daemon and Deziel to reveal the contents of a crate they'd carried into the solar, to see him with his other prize from the Capitol. Father _had_ written telling of priceless treasures, more than a month ago, and the first bite of Uncle Doran's revenge would be sweet indeed for many Dornishmen to savor. It would normally have been a grave insult to the Seven to sever a head and preserve it from the touch of the Stranger--but not so grave an insult as that of murdering a babe suckling at its mother's breast.

Obara had heard, watching Daemon and Deziel lift the jar from the crate to set it on Father's desk, that in the North such actions carried little reprehension. Gregor Clegane had killed Father's sister, and so Father and Uncle Doran were only instruments of justice by ending his life. Thinking on Tyene's description of Sansa and how Sansa had appeared just now, Obara found herself wanting to learn more of this style of justice and law. Perhaps Father would let her teach his wife some fighting and she would share tales of her home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we had Sansa and Doran and Obara--and I hope you liked them?? Anyway, thank you for reading and please let me know what you think of this chapter!


	36. Oberyn, Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm glad you seemed to like last chapter, here is a Thanksgiving treat for you--more of their first day in Sunspear! Mostly from Oberyn and then Sansa's POV.
> 
> In other news: DO NOT GOOGLE GOUT NO MATTER HOW CURIOUS YOU ARE.

Oberyn lounged in the windowsill of his solar, breathing in the clean smell of his city and listening to the sounds of it, and peeled an orange. He felt incredibly satisfied with himself in honesty, and had an easy smile for his brother and niece when they were shown in by Daemon. It was incredibly private to see his brother in his wheeled chair, though, and Oberyn stood and gave his brother a short bow. Sansa and Ellaria had decided to rest for a few hours, Nymeria and Tyene catching up with their sister Obara and their adoptive grandfather Harmon.

"Oberyn, my heart is glad for your return," Doran said, allowing Oberyn to gently lift his hands to kiss the fingertips. The joints, gnarled by the gout, were not so angry a red as they had been months ago and he knew that his brother had progressed to using his disease as a disguise of his vigor. Now that they were poised to strike they must look weaker than they ever had.

"Brother, my heart is glad to see your face once more," he replied, setting his brother's hands down and then moving to sit at the wide table where his brother and niece might join him. Arianne, tiny and beautiful, was already dressed for court later on in the day in her most demure dress. Doran had a curiosity to his face, glancing around the room for others besides Daemon and Deziel.

"I wonder if your wife might join us? Alone?"

Oberyn nodded, gesturing for Daemon to summon her. He had woken everyone a few hours before dawn and the principal members of the party had set out right as the sun rose--Sansa and Ellaria were both weary from the weeks on the road, despite the fortnight they'd spent at the Hellholt, and Oberyn looked forward to allowing both of them to settle into a meaningful routine.

Sansa wore a white shawl over her shoulders as she followed Daemon back into the room a few minutes later. Her dress, a gray silk that nearly shimmered, was of the Dornish style and Oberyn swallowed down sadness that she would hide herself in a shawl. His countrymen could hardly help their shocked reactions to seeing the scars on her and so he understood her self-consciousness in large groups--but this was his brother, his calm brother who would see and understand her previous pain.

"Sansa," he said, holding a hand out to draw her to his lap and arranging her there gently in his arms, "this is my brother Doran, the Ruling Prince of Dorne, and his daughter Arianne. It is best we all meet before our presentation to the court."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Doran, Arianne," she said, intercepting his hand as it moved over her belly and threading her fingers with his instead. _She does not trust her goodfamily to know of our child,_ he thought, sadness flickering in his heart. He could not and would not blame her though--her goodsister had been murdered at a wedding of all things. Oberyn ached to tell her that she was safe but knew that safety was borne of trust.

"Sansa, I've grieved with your family these last few years--and for our part in everything I am sorry," Doran said, his voice raw and earnest. Sansa stiffened though and Oberyn knew his brother did not speak comforting words to her.

"Your...your part?" She saw Freys and Boltons around her now, he could tell as her eyes darted to all the faces in the room and by how she moved to leave his arms. Oberyn let her, giving her the distance she needed, but made a subtle gesture to Daemon to put himself between Sansa and the windows. Unlike her captors in King's Landing, Oberyn tried not to underestimate his wife.

"Yes, our part for having stood by and done nothing," Doran continued, his own eyes sharp as he watched Sansa for any sign she would dart for a window or otherwise make to harm herself. _This is the girl who begged me for poison lest I leave her alone in this world--she will never willingly live among enemies again._

"Sansa...?" she twitched at his voice and backed a step away. Oberyn resisted the urge to go to her, instead letting her decide on it. No one spoke or moved for a long few moments--Doran would have no need to see the scars on her skin, now, for her trauma was displayed for all to see. Her fingers wound into the shawl, wrapping it tighter around her shoulders, before she took a few steps to sit beside him. He missed her warmth, but only put his hand out for her to hold once more. Sansa's fingers were delicate and did not tremble when she set her hand in his--though her pulse raced.

"You are...apologizing for doing nothing. Why--why did you think you owed my family anything?"

"Because though she was dead, your father returned our sister to us in stately dignity. The butcher king wanted her bones given to the dogs, but Lord Eddard demanded otherwise. I do not think he ever knew the debt we've owed him for such decency."

Sansa looked down at her lap, obviously trying to keep her composure. Oberyn let her keep her peace, rubbing a thumb over her knuckles in a comforting circle. He loved her fiercely and he would remain by her side for this battle and for every one after it.

"You are our family now, Sansa, we will try to do right by you," Arianne said with a soft smile. Sansa still did not look up but did angle her body closer to Oberyn so she could hold his hand with both of hers. He thought back to when she'd first wed him--how long it had taken to recover her confidence after a shock.

"We do have a gift for you, though, if you'll have it," his niece continued and Doran handed her a small bundle that she carefully unwrapped. Sansa glanced up through her lashes at her goodfamily, her hair falling gracefully over her shoulders. Arianne's steps were cautious as she walked around the table. In her hands a bright metal sparkled and suddenly Oberyn had his heart in his throat.

"This belonged to my aunt, Elia Martell, and it would honor us all if you would wear it."

Oberyn's mother had been given a Valyrian steel dagger by a merchant lord of Qarth in a bid to have Doran wed to the man's daughter--but their mother had already promised Doran he might marry for love and the merchant lord refused to take the dagger back. The man had foolishly believed their mother a foolish woman who would be soon counseled against her chosen path by their father.

Mother had had the dagger melted down and made into Elia's sigil necklace for her eighth nameday--and now it would adorn Sansa's neck.

"I would be pleased to wear it," Sansa said looking up at Arianne. His niece had a warm smile on her face as she made her way behind Sansa's chair. His wife bent her head forward so the necklace could be slipped around her neck. The cool of ageless steel from Old Valyria, brighter than any burnished silver, raised gooseflesh on Sansa's arms as it settled against her breast.

"And now you are, in every way, Princess Sansa of the House Nymeros Martell," Doran said, his voice tight with controlled emotion.

 

* * *

 

Their presentation to the court resembled what she'd imagined court receptions would be in King's Landing. Polite curtsies and bows followed them as Oberyn led them to were Doran and Arianne sat together. She and Oberyn knelt before the dais and were announced by the seneschal, moving to the side to allow the other knights, lords, and ladies to be introduced.

Last of all came Ser Deziel and Ser Daemon who carried a sturdy tray between them into the throne room. Her husband's macabre jar was covered by a bright orange sheet of silk--she didn't know for sure, of course, but for weeks now wherever Ser Deziel went so too did Gregor Clegane's head. Oberyn kissed her knuckles before stepping once more to stand before his elder brother with a short bow, and Sansa took a deep breath because she knew what he had planned as he began speaking in Dornish Valyrian--his voice melodic and authoritative.

"Prince Doran, Princess Arianne, lords and ladies--I return not only with a beautiful woman who agreed to become my wife, Princess Sansa, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, but with a guest sent to us by Lord Tywin Lannister himself." The hall around them grew quiet, the energy changing from vague celebration to something much more serious. It reminded Sansa, in truth, of the days in Winterfell when her mother had chosen to sit in the hall with Father as he made judgments for criminals and wayward bannermen. Oberyn's words for these last few months had been true--the resentment of the Martells was shared by much of Dorne. Sansa swallowed thickly, hoping she wouldn't embarass her new family as the grotesque head was revealed to horrified gasps throughout the hall.

"I give you Ser Gregor of the House Clegane. Ser Gregor is a sworn bannerman to Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, and we should treat him with all respect due his station," Oberyn announced, as grandly as he might a king but Sansa could see the spark of barely-leashed fury around his eyes. He was as tightly wound now as he had been the day he killed this man. Sansa remembered his fierce, possessive kiss--the smell of blood on him, how it made his fingers sticky against her skin as it dried.

A pedestal was brought forward by a pair of servants and situated to the right of Prince Doran's high dais. Sansa could see some of those gathered turning pale, hands pressed to mouths and eyes averted, as Oberyn lifted the jar and set it down to be displayed properly. Clegane's head wobbled and bounced for a few moments inside the preservative liquid.

"Is he to be a permanent guest, Prince Oberyn?" there was a bit of a jest in Doran's tone, but his eyes were fixed on the head with similar satisfaction as Oberyn's.

"He stays at your leisure, my prince," Oberyn finally said, bowing once more and then taking his place at Sansa's side once more. They stood there as her goodbrother made a short speech about the importance of loyalty and finished up with words about the value all those gathered must remember to put on family.

Sansa knew what he spoke of in reality though--her goodbrother meant to go to war somehow soon and he this was his ever so polite call to arms. He reminded her of men like Tyrion, and Lord Baelish, if those men had been as cool as Varys or Lord Tywin had always been. Doran Martell had a very specific goal in mind but was willing to set it aside for larger ones until it came to fruition. Oberyn's gift of a head in a jar was evidence of one such plan coming full circle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is when some heavy stuff is going to go down, but I felt that these scenes were fairly necessary. let me know what you all think!


	37. Doran, Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Doran! Allusions of smut! Angst...sort of!
> 
> Also for Sansa's baby: nothing bad is happening or will happen to it! Just surprises! One person has guessed what the plan is but I'm not saying who...

Doran was on the balcony in his private solar, hardly used for the last few years, looking out at a rainstorm coming off the ocean. His hands ached as the air changed from hot to cold, dry to humid. His thoughts centered on his brother and the woman he'd married. Somehow he'd begun to assume that his brother had exhausted his tricks or mad plans but Sansa Stark proved him wrong. Oberyn had obviously seen her plight and would have been moved by it regardless of her family name--though the majority of her suffering at the hands of the Crown had stemmed _from_ her family name.

Stark--a ruling line stretching for thousands of years, unbroken. A smile tugged at his mouth for there was a maester who had once written of the similarities of Dorne and the North. Perhaps the man had had the truth of it and Oberyn's actions had united two kingdoms that shared much more than they differed. If the reports still trickling in from around the realm were to be believed then Oberyn's wife was the last trueborn member of her House. Her brothers were all slaughtered and their bodies defiled by Ironborn and Lannisters, her sister likely having met her end in the slums of King's Landing, and her parents going to the Stranger with heads in hand. Even the main cadet house of the Starks, the Karstarks, was splintered and fractured by deaths and in-fighting.

By all accounts Winterfell had been burned to the ground and its smallfolk murdered--even the maester it was rumored. That Sansa was able to wake and carry on each day was nearly unimaginable. Doran could not imagine being so alone--his children, brother, and cousins all murdered viciously--while imprisoned by his worst enemies. The seemingly meek redhead had a carefully banked fire in her that he admired.

"Doran?" Oberyn's voice called into the room, his footsteps cautious. Doran raised one hand up to be seen above the back of his chair and his brother came to his side quickly, leaning back on the railing of the balcony so they could face one another easily.

"I apologize for whatever problems my marriage might give your plans," Oberyn finally said, the apple of his throat bobbing as he swallowed whatever words might have been meant to follow, but Doran knew that look. Oberyn had found something, someone, he wasn't willing to give up save at a dear price so he flicked the apology away with a finger, a soft smile threatening to take over his face. After their sister's death Oberyn had been nearly mad with grief and had relied heavily on Doran's explicit directions to keep himself from losing his mind to rage. The habit had persisted these last twenty years, off and on.

"She is family, Oberyn, and that is enough. I wouldn't be surprised if you've put your tenth daughter in her, given how you look at her, though I do wonder how you came across a marriage to Sansa Stark, the last I'd heard was that she'd been married to Tyrion son of Tywin." His brother nodded, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out slowly before beginning to speak. His words clearly cost him, but they were steady and remarkably even.

"Yes, and it was Tyrion who begged me do it. He was sure that his father would somehow arrange for her to be raped, Lannister _blood_ being more important than _which_ Lannister," venom dripped from Oberyn's voice then as Doran felt ice sluice over his heart, "and she already could not grieve properly for her family. She still hasn't told me everything that happened and may never--even now she will scream herself awake every so often."

Lightning struck, six splintering white lances, out on the ocean as the storm built. The wind bringing it to land was stern and strong, whipping the torches into near sputtering. Oberyn rolled his shoulders, nodding his chin towards the shelter of the solar, and Doran nodded his agreement. He could move the chair by himself but with a deal of discomfort.

"I brought something of Sansa's you might like to see," his brother said once he'd pushed Oberyn to his usual space at his desk. On the surface were scrolls, letters, and sheafs of parchment filled with dense writing--he would have to make sure his brother's wife received her letter, he reminded himself as Oberyn handed him a small stack of neatly folded papers. The writing was unfamiliar but as he read over them Doran quickly realized they pertained to disputes brought before a bannerman's court. The notes were not made by a Dornishman he decided as his eyes flicked over judgments written in the margins--some unflinchingly cruel, others unflinchingly pragmatic.

Having been himself oft accused of not thinking like a Dornishman Doran did not find it jarring to see these private thoughts and decisions put to page. Oberyn sat across from him, stealing dried fruits from the remains of Doran's breakfast--he disliked having it cleared away and instead would remind himself to eat by keeping a bit of food nearby. He worked faster that way and wasted neither his own nor a servant's time in pursuit of a mouthful of food.

Finally he stopped, getting to the bottom of the stack where a questioning statement was written-- _Let him build his walls on promise that he properly maintain extra horses for the warning riders and those who they retrieve?_ \--and Doran set the pages down to look intently at his brother. He didn't ask who had penned these notes, for Oberyn had said they were Sansa's, but let his silence speak his questions well enough.

"That last--she did that in Kingsgave. Filched the sheet from beneath my own hand almost and took notes for half the day. Breathed no words against what Dagos Manwoody and I meted out as the Prince's Justice, and then the very last case she gives me that. However much the Crown tried to destroy her she did not break. I took her from them not half a year ago, Doran, and she thrives. Speak to her, alone, when we withdraw to the Water Gardens and you will see if you haven't already."

Doran thumbed through the pages once more, seeing the difference in culture between himself and his goodsister, and nodded. Her presence advanced their aims--he was no fool that for Daenerys Stormborn to take control of the realm she would need stable ground to stand on. Having only five kingdoms to contend against was better odds than six or even seven.

"You might have to change your name for her, Oberyn," he murmured, looking meaningfully at his brother who nodded. His eyes were far off but he eventually smiled--too widely, his eyes crinkling just enough to mask the tears that had welled in them.

"I did not expect you to give her Elia's sigil, but I cannot envision a woman more fitted to have it after our sister. We had made mention, weeks ago now, of perhaps a cadet sigil for her and her daughters--a sun and spear with wolves rampant," Oberyn chuckled, blinking away his tears, "after all, I am hers and she is mine." Doran's lips plucked at a smile then too, knowing that though Oberyn would always be wayward he wouldn't be able to leave Sansa behind as he had left so many lovers. She would remain at his side for as long as she herself wished and enjoy the same standing in his heart as Ellaria Sand.

"Perhaps think on it some more, Brother. I've had news from young Daenerys Targaryen and it may be to our benefit to have Dornishmen above and below the lands I intend to help her take."

 

* * *

 

Sansa rubbed her stomach, wondering if she was imagining that it was beginning to change in firmness, and paced around the solar. Outside of the palace a thundering winter storm poured torrents of rain down on Sunspear. Her other hand played with the sigil Arianne had put around her neck, the steel long having warmed to her skin. It was not jewelry of silver or gold but she found herself well-pleased with it. Her heart yearned for the wolf of her father's banners but this particular sigil was too dear to Oberyn and Doran's hearts to ever ask. It would be akin to asking her to etch Dornish suns along the length of her father's Ice.

Oberyn stole up behind her on bare feet and stopped her pacing, his hands warm on her elbows and his lips hot on the side of her neck. Sansa leaned back into him, letting him ground her in this new place. Supper had been private, just for the immediate family, and Sansa had met Arianne's younger brother Quentyn. The young man seemed kind and responsible, quiet like his father, but with an unremarkable face even as Doran shared the striking looks of Oberyn. She was thankful that her expectancy hadn't been announced, though her goodbrother did cast speculative glances at her occasionally through the meal.

"My love, come to bed," Oberyn murmured into her ear, sliding his arms around her middle. Sansa swallowed thickly and moved one of his hands to cover her heart and the other low on her belly. He had stolen away a few hours ago, pressing an absent kiss to her cheek and murmuring that he had to speak with his brother alone. She was glad he'd returned--he and Ellaria were the few familiar things she had these days.

"I can't sleep," she said honestly. On the road surrounded by armed knights she'd grown used to a certain feeling of security. In the Hellholt she'd been reminded of Winterfell and then there had been the towering presence of Lord Harmon that had put her worries aside. Sunspear, for all its beauty and the welcome she'd received, did not inspire any peace in her heart.

"I was not proposing _sleeping_ , lover," her companion replied, slipping his fingertips under the strap of her dress and caressing the warm skin there. Sansa's insides clenched and it was _not_ because of her mother's stomach. She closed her eyes, tilting her head to the side so he could kiss and nibble at her neck. Oberyn would make her forget her unease, he was good at that--but did she want him to?

Sansa turned in his arms and looked up into his eyes. Oberyn's gaze was dark and hot as she hooked her fingertips in his belt but he settled for looking at her without diving in to capture her lips. Something in her look though gave him enough pause that his focus changed.

"What worries you?"

"If I will ever find my footing again," she said, worrying at the intricate stamping on his belt where her thumbnail could reach. The palace was quiet around them, only the faint sounds of Ellaria getting ready for bed in their chamber could be heard. Oberyn's gaze turned soft and he leaned in to rest his forehead on hers.

"You will, I have faith in you. Besides, Obara likes you." Sansa huffed a laugh, letting her head slip to rest on his chest. Obara--who she'd been told was Oberyn's exact copy but hadn't believed it until she'd seen the older woman. In her early twenties Obara had Oberyn's hawkish nose and lines on her cheeks made deep by smiles and frowns alike--and today her eyes had blazed with an anger Sansa hoped to never inspire in Oberyn's own.

"I don't think she liked me--though do not pressure her to, I wouldn't know what to do with myself should my father have taken up with Lady Margaery." Oberyn chuckled, his hands warm where they splayed over her back and hip.

"If she didn't like you, Sansa, you would know. My eldest has no reservations about being blunt," he said before kissing her temple and continuing in a softer tone, "will you come to bed?" Sansa leaned back from him to see the mischief in his face.

"If you ask nicely, Prince Oberyn," she teased, biting her lip in shyness as he held her tighter.

"Will my lovely," he kissed her forehead, "darling," her cheek, "selfless, beautiful, and radiant princess let me make love to her tonight?" Her feet barely touched the floor now as he nearly lifted her up, kisses langorous and careful. She pulled away just an inch so she could properly look into his dark eyes.

"She will if the lovely, darling, selfless, beautiful, and radiant Ellaria Sand joins us." She held her breath then, watching the joy steal over his face. With a whoop he slung her over his shoulder-- _you're alright little bird, you're alright_ \--Sansa willed her mind away from that day, strangling it and burying it deeply once more _\--_ and he walked quickly towards their chamber door. She might never again find solid ground to stand on, either here or anywhere else, but Oberyn seemed to like carrying her and his feet seemed sure enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ookay, so I hope that this lived up to expectations! Let me know what you think! 
> 
> (And can we get a whoop-whoop for Sansa getting her some?)


	38. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm posting this chapter riiiight before work where I won't have internet, so please forgive me that I have to wait several hours before replying to everyone's comments from chapter 37...! I hope the content of this chapter at least makes up for the fact that I can't talk to anyone just yet!

Sansa woke up even earlier than Oberyn did the next day, rushing to the empty wash basin and wretching up vinegary bile along with whatever was left from the previous evening's supper. It was something every mother suffered, she knew, but as tears sprang to her eyes from the pain of it she wished it were otherwise. Making this child had proven far more enjoyable than the carrying of it--and she still had more than half a year before she would hold her daughter to her breast. _I hope she looks like Arya,_ Sansa thought as Ellaria's narrow hands caressed her shoulders suddenly. There was the naive hope that somehow-- _somehow_ \--she would put a son into Oberyn's arms when the time came but Sansa counseled herself away from such a notion. _With already eight daughters between five women--I will not be the one to give him a son_.

She supposed she ought to be thankful he was Dornish and did not hunger for a son as men did in the rest of Westeros. Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, sending a fervent prayer for the Gods to give her a son--a son to take to Winterfell to sit on her father's seat, even if the child's skin was of the same ruddy bronze as Oberyn's and with the onyx eyes of the Martells. In the back of her mind Sansa knew that it was of little use--the Gods hardly ever answered prayers for her, when they did it was sometimes in the worst of ways.

She stepped away from the mess she'd made and swallowed a few times to try and rid her mouth of the raw, burning aftertaste of acid. Ellaria's lips ghosted on her cheek and Sansa tucked her head against her neck. Where Oberyn was like the desert wind--unpredictable and fierce--Ellaria was the desert sun. She shone brightly and let everyone feel her heat somehow. Sansa knew her face turned bright red as she remembered the previous evening's delights . Oberyn had laughingly deposited her in the middle of the bed, quickly kissing up her belly, between her breasts, and nipping at one of the tendons in her throat before rolling to his back with an exaggerated sigh.

Ellaria, just finishing with her bath--Sansa wondered what the Dornish did during the gloomy and cold Winter that was fast bearing down upon them because she did not relish the idea of five years of cold baths in chilly rooms--stood naked as the day of her birth across the room from them, hands akimbo as she quirked an eyebrow at Oberyn. Sansa had seen the other woman unclothed more than a few times over the last few months, more in recent weeks than earlier ones. She had tried to tell herself that her glances were accidental, having no words to explain her thoughts even to herself.

"You've become sad, my love, and I cannot understand why," Ellaria said, leaning her weight on one hip and Sansa propped herself up she could lean on the headboard. Her hair was a bit tangled from Oberyn carrying her on his shoulder so she busied herself with finger-combing it out so she could braid it. It kept her from staring at Ellaria's fine form--with her belly beginning to truly curve out she looked like the Mother herself.

"I want a beautiful woman in my bed," he murmured, trailing pensive fingertips up and down his chest. Sansa took no insult, instead wondering what game she was being drawn into now.

"You _have_ a beautiful woman in your bed," Ellaria said, her footsteps mincing as she came towards them. Sansa focused even more intently on her hair, her cheeks beginning to flame as she thought back on her words to Oberyn. Nights like this had always been in the wings, waiting for her to just _ask_. Ellaria had been the one to teach her how touch might once again be a comfort, how she might once again be loved and valued--while Oberyn had taught her how to be brazen and to be the master of her grieving.

Oberyn who had now turned on his side and was kissing her hip and thigh, absently thumbing his belt open so his long tunic fell open. Sansa shivered when Ellaria's weight dipped the bed at her other side, finally giving up on plaiting her hair and her fingers trembled as she set them down in her lap. Gooseflesh raised all along her arms when Oberyn reached up to tug one strap of her gown from her shoulder.

"Better," Oberyn said with a grin as Ellaria curled up next to Sansa and he reached across her to thumb one of Ellaria's teats, grinning when it pebbled. Sansa focused on breathing evenly and not embarrassing herself. They'd slept in a pile of limbs for more than a month now, but this was something different entirely.

" _Better_ ," Ellaria echoed, taking her eyes from Oberyn and focusing on Sansa, drawing her in for a soft kiss. She felt Oberyn sitting up and his hands gently drawing her to lean back on him, Ellaria following with tender caresses and smiles. Sansa disliked being caged beneath Oberyn, but something about Ellaria's mix of sharp angles and gentle curves was comforting instead of terrifying. Behind her Oberyn's solid warmth, however, helped her relax as fingers deftly undressed her and someone's hand slipped between her legs to rub her inner thigh. Since he was deprived of her lips she wouldn't have been surprised if it was Oberyn, but had no time to investigate as she was gradually lost between them.

Hopefully her Lady Mother and Septa Mordane turned their eyes from her as she gasped when Ellaria took her breast into her mouth. Whenever Oberyn did it she felt the coarseness of his mustache and short beard, the scratching bringing out a zing of tension that she'd grown to like--but the other woman's mouth was soft, her full lips slipping easily across Sansa's skin, and the tension she craved was instead brought by gentle biting that never felt hard enough to bruise but nonetheless had Sansa's blood racing. The hand between her legs was definitely Oberyn's though, because Ellaria's hands came up to squeeze her bosom briefly when the woman kissed her way down Sansa's belly. Shudders threatened to overcome her when a fingertip from his hand found her pearl and rubbed teasing circles around it.

"She is beautiful, our princess, is she not?" Oberyn said, nibbling at Sansa's ear and rolling his hips into her backside. Ellaria murmured an agreement, her hands now holding Sansa's thighs apart as she seemed to ponder her next move. Sansa tried to keep from panting and ended up gasping whenever Oberyn's finger paused to push at the nub of flesh firmly. Ellaria seemed content to watch, stroking at the tender skin of Sansa's inner thighs.

Outside of the palace the storm picked up in rage and a quiet place in her mind was reminded of the passion the Warrior had proclaimed for the Maiden--the Gods were watching her and did not find her wanton. Rather they seemed to be celebrating with her and all at once she lost control of herself, pleading that her lovers not stop, that they do anything but stop. Her words were rewarded quickly by Ellaria who kissed her flower while Oberyn assured her that they would give her anything she wanted--and by the time she fell asleep his words were proven true. She'd slept deeply until being woken by her stomach.

Now she stood, her throat burning from the vomit, cuddled close to Ellaria as the room lightened as dawn approached. Oberyn had woken only long enough to let her get up from bed, but now he slept once again. The word _indolent_ came to Sansa's mind as they watched his chest rise and fall with even breaths, his limbs tangled in the sheets and his hair sticking up at all angles. Since they'd entered Dornish territory he'd refused to hear of cutting his hair. It was getting shaggy and starting to show his Rhoynish curls.

"Your sickness will abate soon and then she will start to practice her kyrtaenos," Ellaria said finally, leading them back to bed. Letting Sansa lay down she went to the sideboard and poured a cup of water for her. Oberyn mumbled a protest at the early hour, only coming out of his doze enough to snuggle closer to Sansa. They'd all been awake late into the night, and he'd been keeping himself to a strict schedule for the last several weeks.

Taking the cup from Ellaria and gingerly making room for the woman, Sansa decided that they all deserved a few days of rest and recuperation. Later in the morning, warm sunlight streaming in through their windows, she woke up in Ellaria's arms while Oberyn did his stretches in silence. Sansa stroked Ellaria's hip but otherwise didn't move to break up the tranquil mood that had enveloped them.

Sunspear wasn't her home yet--might never be her home, she might spend most of her days in the famed Water Gardens--but with these people she could steal an hour or two of peace from her past. Looking at Ellaria's curving stomach she whispered a confession that had been on the tip of her tongue for weeks.

"I think I love you."

Across the room from her Oberyn stilled and turned, and Ellaria's fingers twitched. Sansa wouldn't meet either of their eyes, shrugging her shoulders tight towards her ears, not wanting to see any pity in them. She needn't have worried, for Oberyn crept to the bed on light feet to take one of her hands and press a kiss to the palm. Next to her Ellaria kissed her forehead and kept her own counsel.

Lord Harmon had said that when Oberyn loved it was fierce beyond the ken of even Dornishmen, and that as a wayward man her husband was expected to be very honest about who he loved and what they meant to him in his family. Oberyn had actually loved very few people in his life--his siblings, his children, Ellaria, and now Sansa--and the rest of his lovers were set aside as painlessly as possible for all involved. He was very much admired in Dorne for his fortitude, Lord Harmon had told her, and was the brightest jewel in Prince Doran's treasury.

"My love, it is good to hear you say such things," Oberyn finally said, pressing kisses from the inside of her wrist all the way to her shoulder, "it is good because we love you--and we want most of all to earn your affections, and after that we would particularly like to keep them," his last statement was filled with suggestion, so Sansa pulled him down onto the bed with trembling hands and tried to breathe as normally as possible as he settled over her.

Ellaria lay at their side, her eyes bright as she watched them. Sansa was hyper-aware of where Oberyn touched her, his weight between her legs, on her hips--and all through it she clung to the look in his eyes that told her he thought her wondrous. Her husband did not take it lightly that she would lay beneath him at all and tears rushed to her eyes so quickly she barely had time to shut them. She didn't succeed in hiding them, but Oberyn kissed the few that fell before kissing her fiercely and whispering _I love you_ 's all the while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there was a little debate in the comments of last chapter and I do want to clarify some things just in case I've been accidentally causing you guys any angst. If you're super hardcore against spoilers, I suggest not reading this note!!
> 
>  
> 
> 1) You've all won me over to Sansa having a boy (she was totes going to have a girl named Visenya because of Scary Reasons but that plan has been...modified). The name has been decided on and if you want to know what it is, it has been suggested by at least one of you and I am not telling you what it is...! *mad cackling*
> 
> 2) Sansa, Oberyn, Ellaria, and everyone else in the story is going to continue referring to Sansa's baby as a girl, and will do things like suggest activities and names, on the assumption that she's having a girl because there's pretty much no reason to assume she's having a boy. Even Henry VIII had a bunch (A BUNCH) of stillborn boys, and all Oberyn has are eight healthy girls given to him by a number of women, no stillborn boys even. 
> 
> I'm not mad at anyone, this is not a comment of "oh those annoying readers!" this is a clarification to save people from worrying too much. I'm not GRRM, I don't aim at you all with a bazooka of sadness, I just want people to be all happy and such. Except when I don't. :D
> 
> ALlll of that being said please let me know what you think of this chapter, I will be replying to all your previous comments when I get off work later today :D


	39. Tywin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tywin plotting! Tywin doesn't know jack and that makes his shriveled little heart hurt!

Tywin hated Varys. He hated the soft way the man spoke, he hated the purported tenderness the man exhibited to whores, he hated that he never quite knew what was going on behind the eyes above those chubby cheeks. Nevertheless Tywin's hate could never eclipse his need for information--so though he was showing his hand by requesting information about the Dornish princes, he felt it a weakness worth exposing. Over the last two months reports had not been favorable coming from the Boltons. He tried to tell himself that it was the simple change in regime--that things would begin to settle down but somehow some Northron idiot had gotten a hold of the information of Sansa Stark's marriage.

If there was a worse region for Dorne to begin sympathizing with it was the North--and Tywin cursed his own momentary rage-induced stupidity. He had been furious with Tyrion and caught in a deeply tense situation with Prince Oberyn and ultimately Dorne. If he'd gotten his son--or another suitable Lannister--to bed the girl straight away she'd already proven able to speak up about her suffering and he would have the Red Viper hounding him about it. There had been the thought in the back of his mind that he might simply expose the hot-headed prince to Ser Gregor and let the Gods decide--and had readily sent for the man at Cersei's request.

What better way to show the feckless Prince Doran what he thought of Dornish schemes than to have a Clegane murder yet another Martell--and another Martell woman, if only by marriage, kept captive in the Capitol by the Crown. Gouty Prince Doran would be powerless to make a move against Tywin while he was at his weakest--his armies disbanded and lacking their full manpower, his coffers bled of even the marrow, and a yet another new king on the throne. Tywin had had the Dornish right where he wanted them and planned to keep them.

He had not expected that the hot-headed, half-mad Prince Oberyn would defeat the Mountain--yet he had. The scream his bannerman had let out might have curdled another man's blood but it only made Tywin's slow and cool. There were other paths to Dornish obedience should they choose to rebel--but he needed Varys to help inform his plans. If he still believed in the Gods he would have thanked them that so far Daenerys Targaryen hadn't realized the potential of the Dornish at her fingertips.

It would be a warm day on the Wall before he would put it past the Martell brothers to throw their lot in with hers when she arrived to Westeros. They weren't quite powerful enough, he estimated, to make a suit to her that would bring her across the Narrow Seat on her own. A second child, with neither land nor title nor martial accomplishments, and perhaps a smattering of lesser cousins--a marriage would not be the way they bought her friendship.

Dorne was ever a pauper kingdom compared to the wealth of the Reach or the Westerlands, dealing in jewels and metalsmithing and fine textiles.

"I have little information for you, Lord Tywin, besides confirmation of what our little birds sang of in Bitterbridge. The Stark girl carries Prince Oberyn's first trueborn child." Tywin gave a curt nod at this finding, clenching his teeth together in a fit of renewed fury at Tyrion. The only thing keeping his grip on the North--a grip that he felt in his bones would slacken after his death--was the fact that they were almost all to a holdfast allergic to female heirs of the line. Sansa would give her mad husband a daughter--and in Dorne the child would inherit whatever empty title its father held, but Prince Doran and Prince Oberyn would be unable to capitalize on the child's heritage as a Stark.

"Please have one of your minions leave that information on my desk, that will be all, Lord Varys." He received a short bow and retreating steps before Varys paused and looked over his shoulder at Tywin. There was a certain measuring in his gaze--and again Tywin hated the man with a passion--but it was gone as soon as it came.

"Your son has also arrived back from Braavos, I took the liberty of informing him that his presence before you is required as soon as he is presentable. He had a closed look about him, my Lord." Tywin resisted growling and settled on standing so he could pace. Tyrion had been gone on what should have been a three or four month visit had been two--barely enough time to sail there and sail back. Even without seeing his son's trepidation Tywin knew.

They'd been rejected, and Tommen's days were numbered as King. A hefty loan from the Iron Bank might just be the enticement needed to bring the young Targaryen queen across the sea--her Unsullied unquestioningly loyal, those few Dothraki who stayed with her having braved the sea for her, and thousands of slaves who considered her some sort of goddess-queen. Now that Tyrion was without a wife Tywin humorlessly considered sending the dwarf to her as some offer of marriage.

She would slaughter his disgraceful son and give King Tommen a right and proper martyr--the smallfolk of King's Landing had never believed the accusation of Joffrey's murder against Tyrion, and should Tyrion lose his head in service of the Realm then those people would rise to avenge their precious Halfman.

But if he was going to send Tyrion away he needed to have the dwarf's death be a useful one for Tywin--not Tommen. He did not need Tommen to be able to exercise any power, not yet. He needed to repair the Realm from the shambles Joffrey's war had wrought on it. _There's your peace._ Despite his flaws, Tyrion knew the political realities of their time as Tywin himself did. Cersei, who had been confined to her rooms for these months after Joffrey's funeral, thought herself clever but she tended to react rather than plan. There was only so far pure reaction could take you and Tywin lamented that she hadn't learned that lesson.

Even Sansa Stark had seen her path out of King's Landing--a child in her belly. If she was with a Lannister child she would be sent away to Casterly Rock--out of King's Landing. If she was married to a Martell and full of a Martell's seed then she would go with her husband to Dorne--out of King's Landing. Had Cersei been in a similar situation Tywin wasn't entirely sure that his daughter would have worked out her options in such a manner. No--his daughter seemed to prefer her brother's bed and was reported as thoughtlessly wanton with some of the knights and lords of the court. Such an escape was beneath her and therefore beneath her notice.

With all of this in mind Tywin began drawing up plans to send Tyrion to Dorne. He needed to have someone's eyes there and he didn't get nearly enough out of Varys to satisfy his curiosity. Dornishmen were hard to convert to spies if the one doing the hiring was a Lannister or who took Lannister orders--but the Dornish had Sansa Stark among them, and she knew Tyrion. His son had been the only person in King's Landing to show the least bit of concern for the girl and Tywin planned, despite the lost marriage, to capitalize on that.

Dorne was too different from the life Lady Sansa had known and he bet heavily that she would appreciate a familiar face with familiar ways.

Tyrion's steps were shuffling and heavy to his ear as always and he studiously ignored him as he went to sit before the large desk. In an absent and ugly thought Tywin wondered how Tyrion had managed the height of it--had he climbed upon it? He would have to ask Shae.

"Well, Father, I fear that I bring a regretful decline from the Iron Bank--a more summary dismissal I've never had save perhaps from you when I was a boy. If it makes you feel better they received that rather hysteric letter from the Night's Watch as well and have funded Stannis Baratheon on proviso that he first aid the Watch. We may yet get lucky and Winter will kill our enemies before long."

"You are going to Dorne," Tywin said, ignoring Tyrion's other words for the most part. The details of the trip were not important, only that the bid for a change in repayment had been declined. What mattered now was keeping better tabs on Dorne--and praying that Sansa Stark give her husband the girl-child everyone expected. Better yet, Tywin thought as he effeciently signed his name to the writ, have her miscarry and the scarring leave her barren.

" _Dorne_?" Tyrion's voice was shocked and disbelieving. 

"To bring an offer of a seat on the Small Council for Prince Oberyn or Prince Doran, and a spacious suite of chambers at their disposal should they wish to bring their family with them. You are to stave off any questioning for as long a you can and glean as much information as can be had about their preparedness. Soldier movements as much as you can find them but always remember your interest in the offer of the seat."

"And if I should lose my head, Father, what then?"

Tywin finally put his work aside and leveled a direct gaze at Tyrion. The other man squirmed in his seat but did not ask another question. He understood what was being given to him, and a grudging kind of respect tore at Tywin's insides.

"Then you'll be the first of many Lannisters to meet their end by a Dornish spear--and I will have my answer straight away about what Dorne intends to do with the boon I've given them." Thankfully it was too great a distance to muster and army for to retake the North--and smugglers' clothes would not hide such an army aboard ships. They would have been seen all through the Narrow Sea like Princess Nymeria was alleged to have done, and then Sansa Martell would have encountered in the North the same problem that Daenerys Targaryen faced with Westeros:

Fated to rule by decree of Gods and men but taking what was theirs by birthright from those who brought stability despite everything else. It was uncomfortable to bet on such things, but it was all Tywin had at the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading--please let me know what you think of this chapter! We will be back to our Dornishmen next chapter, but for now I'm sorry you had to put up with Tywin!


	40. Daemon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And may I introduce Daemon Sand as a POV character? Yes? Maybe? Well it's happening!
> 
> Daemon didn't go to KL in this story, if you'll remember, instead he managed to catch up to Oberyn in Hellholt. So at this point he's only known Sansa for about a month. 
> 
> Other check-ins for time: by the time of their arrival in Sunspear, Ellaria is ~4.5 to 5 months pregnant, Sansa is coming up on 2 months. Sansa and Oberyn have been married for about 4 months. Yes.

Daemon kept an eye on Princess Sansa as they rode into the city of Sunspear. Oberyn wouldn't be able to keep an eye on her because she rode directly behind him, but Daemon could see her in the corner of his view. When they had gone through the Threefold Gate she had gently removed the pins that kept her cowl over her head, letting the orange fabric fall back to reveal her red hair--Oberyn said that in Essos the priests and priestesses of R'hllor often dyed their hair to show their piety, but few of that level of piety ever came to Dorne. The faith the Dornish kept with the Seven was deep-seated and fervent--and Daemon didn't think that Princess Sansa was some fire god fanatic. She seemed gentle and kind, like a maiden from a Valyrian lovesong.

Princess Sansa's hair was braided in a manner unlike what Daemon had ever seen her wear since meeting her in the Hellholt. There she'd worn her hair entirely loose, like Ellaria did, or with two simple plaits from her temples to the back of her head. Now a plait circled her head like a crown, only the short ends loose from falling out during the morning's ride. Woven into her locks were ribbons of orange and a strand of what he _knew_ were Ellaria's opals. The mid-morning sun made the opals blaze between white and fire. Oberyn had certainly picked a beauty, and Ellaria certainly knew how to show the young woman off.

The crowds were singing and cheering the farther they got into the city--word had travelled, over the last several weeks, that Prince Oberyn returned with a bride who was as brave and kind and beautiful as he was, a woman who shared a horse and bed with Ellaria Sand through the Dornish Marches. Since Princess Sansa was robed in Martell colors, the people of Sunspear easily identified her as that liberated and lovely woman. Daemon had to admire the fact that, before so many people in so new a place as Sunspear, Princess Sansa's poise was impeccable. She played the part of a blushing bride perfectly with shy but pleasing smiles for those who called out in Dornish that she have a happy marriage with their prince.

She reminded him of Arianne in a way though--something cool rested beneath her collarbone, something that kept her blood from boiling _too_ high in anger. A tightly reined control over herself that allowed room for smiles and pleasantries but was meant to keep others at bay. She'd used it against him even--though in reflection he had deserved the hasty brush-off from Oberyn's wife. She had been very kind but very firm in her decline.

Despite her smiles, though, when he helped her dismount before they entered the palace he saw harsh ridges pressed into her fingers and hands from her grip on the reins. Oberyn had told him, several weeks ago, that her strength had been fired in a kiln far hotter than those found in Godsgrace and that any other vessel might have shattered from the heat. With this in mind he had been trying not to surprise her, especially after she'd asked him to watch over her when Oberyn couldn't. _That_ had been a surprise.

It had been the morning of their departure from Vaith and he'd been with them as they took breakfast. Oberyn's head was in his lap, the man having helped himself to it, he had chatted pleasantly with the two women between bites for himself and morsels for Oberyn. The man was like his father was with Lady Ynys when it came to intimate gestures made public.

"Ser Daemon?"

"Yes, Princess Sansa?" She did not fidget but she did pause, putting her words into the order she wanted them in. Oberyn and Ellaria had told him only a little of the nightmares they'd seen in King's Landing but men like Sers Prestan Toland and Deziel Dalt were not so reserved. The horror stories his Septa had told to him as a child weren't true in Dorne but they certainly seemed to have been in the Crownlands.

"My husband the prince informs me that he could be quite busy in Sunspear and that I will at times find myself alone save for Ellaria. When we were in King's Landing he allowed me to choose a knight to keep me safe--and though it will be safe in Sunspear I would feel better having..." all her fine words failed her as she tried to articulate what she wanted. It should have been easy enough but he knew that many of the Dornishmen she'd met so far had been quite vocal with their anger towards those who had done her harm--and that even now the princess found it hard to accept their frustration and rage even when the emotions were on her behalf.

Until his lover had found her, married her, _saved_ her she had been without a defender for a long while, and Daemon couldn't believe none would step forward to put themselves between such a sweet lady and the evils that had befallen her.

"I would be most honored and pleased to serve you, if Prince Oberyn and Ellaria do not have any disagreements?" he glanced down at Oberyn who pursed his lips in a mockery of contemplation before giving a short nod. Since that day he had closely guarded both Princess Sansa and Ellaria Sand, trailing them when they were with Oberyn and walking with them when they were alone. She was an interesting person--aged beyond her years, despite occasional flashes of youthful innocence. In situations with Nym and Tyene he'd seen her act as a woman would ten years her senior, making the other two women seem younger by comparison.

Now, though , as the Martell palace came into better view he could find no chinks in her armor. Princess Sansa's every move was calculated to deflect attention to herself while also stepping into the best light of whatever attention did find its way to her. _She is well-used to dealing with those who mean to do her ill,_ Oberyn had said in Salt Shore as they watched her play in the waves with Lady Gargalen's youngest son. The child, no more than seven, thought it marvelous a grown lady had never been to the sea and had begged for a day in the surf with his new friend. They observed her and the boy from a tent set up close to the tideline, the light fall breezes playing with the tassels and bindings of the contraption. At the time Daemon had asked his prince what reason he had had to marry such a girl, and Oberyn had drawn his short tunic up from his breeches to show a small scar on his flank. No more than an inch long and Daemon knew for a fact there were worse scars on Oberyn's body.

It had come to him slowly, remembering that no place in the world was like Dorne. _They took all of her innocence save what was left betwixt her legs._ Oberyn nodded, prying open a pomegranate and picking out a few of the seed kernels, giving the good ones to Ellaria. Daemon had needed no explanation after that. He'd seen the damage of her abuse while they were in the Hellholt. Some scars silvery with age and others still red at their edges, and above it all was her veritable armor of etiquette and manners. To her credit she wore both armor and scars unconsciously--she never played the martyr and she hardly ever let them shame her, and so the reservations he'd had when Oberyn's company had arrived had been burned away within days of meeting the woman his lover had made a princess.

If he'd somehow still doubted her the last of it would have left today. Oberyn and his brother Prince Doran played an incredibly dangerous game with the rest of Westeros and they needed those close to them to be incredibly loyal to their schemes. Princess Sansa seemed to understand the game. The daggers at her side, given to her by the company some months ago now, were nearly for decoration and to honor the gifters but this woman understood _politics_. Daemon was impressed that a woman from north of the mountains would know aught of artifice and feints so deadly they belonged on the dueling court.

Oberyn had already made plans to teach her the art of the dagger, lamenting the speed of their journey that prevented any possible training, and had managed to teach her how to keep her grip on the weapon while they were in the Hellholt. That was the most important part in Oberyn's estimation and having been taught by the man Daemon couldn't help but agree. Besides it was a good weapon for a woman who looked so harmless--she could remain innocent in appearance while possessing the means to defend herself or even attack outright.

Princess Sansa would certainly develop into as deadly a woman as all the women in Oberyn's life for as different a reason as any of them. Someday she would be as Dornish as the people who flooded the streets in an attempt to glimpse the young bride of their beloved prince. Already they called her _e'aoske katlasa khae_ \--the viper's bloody princess. It was meant as the heartiest of compliments, and Daemon hoped she took it as such.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is pretty distinctive looking and that would race through Dorne faster than a lot of things (namely her abuse, but that would follow quickly on the heels of what Oberyn's wife looks like). She was also raised for being elegant and perfect in public and those skills became lifesaving to her in KL so she's super good at them. Besides, wouldn't the people of Dorne expect Oberyn to marry someone as exotic looking as her??
> 
> Random thing I feel like sharing: If everything (both in this story and re: Oberyn's death) was different my headcanon is that eventually once Arianne could rule by herself that Oberyn would retire with his family to the Hellholt to support Ellaria as she ruled her father's holdfast. Like once all of his plots were played out, Oberyn would settle down into some sort of family life with Ellaria (plus of course all the random lovers he has, you can't tell me that man would stop acting like himself just because he was playing house a little more hardcore than before).


	41. Doran, Sansa, Dany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doran POV! A letter! Sansa! Dany!
> 
> Aura890 I miss your reviews! I hope all is well in your world! Mika Lero I am glad you are reading, I think we all would love to hear more from you!

Governing offered little respite, unfortunately, and within days of his brother's arrival they set themselves to the task of it. Within the next few years, perhaps even within one year, Arianne might be the Ruling Princess and they needed to focus on honing her abilities. Someday Doran would be entombed amongst his ancestors, and someday Oberyn might follow Sansa to her home in the North.

They were halfway through a long evening of reviewing papers when Doran begged for a halt and sent for the makings of some losennta. Arianne seemed glad for the respite but Oberyn, who had been taking care of this tedious business for more than a month now, looked ready to work straight through the night. Doran found himself feeling halfway between the two and was grateful to see the servants return with the wine.

As Oberyn stoked the fire he spoke gently, staring into the flames as he swung the kettle into the flames.

"Sansa, may I share your news with my brother?"

Sansa, who had been quietly embroidering while Ellaria's feet were propped up on her lap, glanced at Oberyn and then at Arianne and himself. After taking their measure she nodded to his brother and set her needlework to the side for the moment.

"As you know, Ellaria is with child, but she is not alone in that. My lovely wife also carries my child in her," Oberyn said, walking from the hearth to stand behind Sansa. They made quite the little family, Doran decided, as his goodsister flushed pink and pressed her lips together. Someday they would leave Dorne for Sansa's home in Winterfell and the babe Oberyn spoke of would be raised up as Lady of Winterfell at least if not yet Queen in the North. No, that title would belong to Sansa should she decide to pursue it, and she would have as much Dornish support as could be given.

Arianne gasped a little in surprise, a short congratulations falling from her lips as she stood up to hold her uncle's hand between her two. His brother gave her a small smile and let her kiss his fingertips. She repeated the gesture with Sansa who hesitated only slightly before also giving her hands to Arianne. Such an old tradition, Doran mused as he watched them. The Rhoynar had believed that there was no greater trust between people than to allow another to do what they would with your hands--perhaps war had been avoided so many centuries ago when Mors Martell had allowed Princess Nymeria to take his hands and kiss them in warm greeting. Before speaking even two words together in private that ancient Martell lord had won the heart of a brave and staid princess of the Rhoynar.

Ever since then it was the public and private custom among family to hold or kiss hands and fingertips, especially in the essdorne Houses of Martell, Dalt, Vaith, Allyrion, and Toland. It was a much more intimate gesture the farther west and north one went, but it was known throughout Dorne.

"I too am happy for you, brother, and you, Sansa," Doran said, reaching for Oberyn's hand as he walked back to his seat. The wine, heating over the fire, perfumed the air nicely as his brother laid his hands on his shoulders. His thumbs worked into the aching muscles of Doran's shoulderblades, and he hung his head in gratitude. As ever his brother could predict what troubled or ailed him, having had to know him through scant letters as a boy and formal interactions as a youth--and then there had been those five years when Doran had sent him to Essos rather than have a continuation of the civil war on his hands.

That they knew one another at all, let alone built such a close kinship, was remarkable.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sansa with probably the first pained look upon her face that he'd seen. She had lost all of her family save her bastard brother whose own history was a secret few knew. Doran doubted if she or anyone else had ever had an inkling, though it stared them in the face during the entirety of Lord Eddard's life after Robert's Rebellion.

"Sansa, we received a letter for you some weeks ago while you were still on the road. My daughter and I opened it for it was addressed to Oberyn, but it is for you. Arianne?" his daughter nodded, gracefully standing and going to his desk for the letter from Jon Snow. The young man must have been one of great standing by now on the Wall--few were permitted to write to their families at all, let alone small letters of congratulation. Sansa watched them, one hand absently grasping the Martell sigil over her heart and the other balled into a fist on her lap. He wondered how long it had been since she'd had a friendly letter, one that was all her own despite who it was addressed to.

She murmured a breathy thanks to Arianne, asking to be excused to read out on the balcony alone and rising quickly when Arianne agreed.

"Take a candle with you, my love," Oberyn said as she passed, "the moon is full but behind the clouds tonight." His hands left Doran's shoulders as he stole one of the candles from the table to give to Sansa. She gave him a tiny smile as she took it but otherwise didn't speak.

Doran rolled his shoulders, glad for the relief, and nodded to Oberyn that he'd done well. His brother, with a lingering glance out towards the balcony, grinned and walked back to the hearth. The wine would be heated nicely by now so they might whisk the spiced honey into it--those outside of Dorne thought their wines to be sour, bitter, difficult to stomach at a gulp and tenuously pleasant at a sip, but this was because it was rarely prepared as it ought. It reflected the misunderstandings the rest of Westeros carried about Dornishmen in general, he felt.

The fire warmed Oberyn's features and he saw their father's handsome face in the firelight. While as brothers they looked alike, Doran had always favored his mother's looks while Oberyn had the sharp features of the minor Toland knight who had fathered them.

A rare grin tugged at his lips as he watched Oberyn burn himself on the kettle as he brought it out from the fire, remembering an evening long ago when he'd burned himself making the wine for his younger siblings. Elia had been nine, Oberyn eight and about to be shipped off to the Qorgyles of Sandstone. His sister had laughed at his clumsiness and Oberyn had cried at the red welt on Doran's forearm, saying he would not drink the losennta to punish it for hurting Doran so. Their parents had eventually convinced the boy and all had been forgotten, but tonight the memory stood vivid in his mind.

It was good that Oberyn's trueborn daughter would grow up well sheltered by her elder sisters yet still have one with whom she was of an age with. Doran had tried to keep his children as separate as possible, remembering his brother's anguish at Elia's death. If anything Oberyn had reacted oppositely--returning to Sunspear at the age of four and twenty with four bastard daughters and a bastard lover in tow and had kept his growing family tightly knit. It had been touching that Oberyn had trained his children to protect Doran's, to keep Arianne, Quentyn, and little Trystane safe.

 

* * *

 

_Lady Sansa,_

_I offer you congratulations on your marriage to Prince Oberyn. I hope that you have a happy marriage where you will find peace after these last years. I would offer words of condolence for your losses, but they are also mine and I fear that I know only too well that words have been meaningless. A brother of the Watch has told me things he knows of Dorne. They seem quite fantastical and strange to my ear. There has not been a Dornishman in the Watch for a number of years, though, so I can only hope for your sake that Sam's words prove true._

_Your brothers, Lord Brandon and Lord Rickon, were recently seen alive. I have not seen them with my own eyes so cannot tell you true that they live but my friend Sam laid eyes on ~~our brother Bra~~ Lord Brandon just months ago. Samwell Tarly is many things, Lady Sansa, but a liar not among them. He is sweet and honorable to the point of idiocy, but he is my friend and I trust his words. _

_A battle brews here, Lady Sansa, and though I was never welcome in your presence at Winterfell I hope that you will pray for our success at it. Should we prevail I will write to you again, if only to think on someone living who has the blood of Lord Eddard Stark in them. If there is anything I think we both share, it is that. If we do not prevail pray that our bones rest easy, as I have prayed for Lord Eddard and his family._

_Jon Snow_

 

* * *

 

Sansa's tears were silent as they fell from her eyes, and she traced the letters of her brothers' names. Jon had been almost perfect at his letters and she had hated him for it as a young child just learning them--the firm script Maester Luwin taught them all was nearly exactly copied here--and she had assumed somehow she would never look on such writing again. The flowing lines and flowery serifs she had learned from Septa Mordane and practiced faithfully on until Father's arrest--those seemed mere artifice in comparison to the steady hand she'd originally learned. As they had all learned--and Jon was the last of them.

The letter had been dated more than a month ago so Sansa sent up her prayers knowing they might well be for the dead--but Jon was the only one who remembered Winterfell before everything had been destroyed and broken. None of them, least of all herself and Jon really, had known how good everything was until the nightmare of King Joffrey's reign had begun.

At some point Ellaria's hands drew her up into a warm embrace, simply holding her in silence. Sansa was glad of the quiet--she wouldn't have had words to describe or explain herself if questioned. That Father's bastard son was alive was a bizarrely happy twist to the fate of the rest of her family and she rejoiced that he had still breathed even if it might have been months ago. She also wept that she'd been so blind as to shun him as a child. At the very least he had been loved by her father and she should have loved him for that very fact--would that she had been Dornish, she thought with a wry smile, and very little of all this would have happened.

_But then I would not know my true strength, and Joffrey would yet sit the throne. My suffering and my family's suffering has been the letting of blood from a gangrenous wound--and soon will come the fire to clean it._

"Do you think I might write back to him, Ellaria?"

"No, lover, not you--but under the Prince of Dorne's seal? Perhaps. I am sure Doran and Oberyn would allow you this if you ask." Sansa nodded, sniffling and wiping at her tears. Inside there was a murmur of conversation as the losennta was poured. Sansa folded Jon's letter carefully and composed herself so she might rejoin the room. Ellaria murmured sweet nothings into her ear as they sat down, and Sansa set Jon's letter where she would remember to pick it up when everyone retired for the night. When Oberyn knelt in front of her to give her a the simple porcelain cup, the losennta steaming and dark in it, she cupped his cheek with a watery smile.

"Thank you." Simple words, but they meant so much more.

 

 

* * *

 

Jorah had advised her to take the Dornish offer--with them she could be queen of six kingdoms united beneath her banners, without them she could very well be queen of none. Ser Barristan advised against the idea entirely--mentioning that they perhaps had ulterior motives against her own given the fact that her brother had betrayed his Dornish wife and that Dorne was not known for forgiveness. Daario had readily admitted that he knew little of Westeros but much of Dorne--they were a free but fierce people, their women as celebrated and revered as their men, and that quietly earned pride laced their every move. He spoke of it as one would a separate realm, which supported Jorah's estimation of their offer. Missandei and Grey Worm each spoke support of Dany's own decision, trusting her not to make the wrong one.

Still she worried she _was_ making the wrong decision as she found a select few of the Meereenese she felt she could entrust with the running of their city. These men were bound in utter secrecy to her plans to leave Essos, not permitted to leave their quarters until she herself had left Meereen for good.

 _Do you want to be queen of resentful people here, Khaleesi, or in Westeros were your family's bones lie?_ It was as close as Jorah had ever come to censuring Ser Barristan's words of how the people hoped for her return. She had known, in her heart, that it was too sweet a promise and just the sort that would make her brother mad with joy. She had been nursed on it and now as she reached for the apple she knew it to be rotten. _Yet still I reach_ , Dany thought as she climbed on Drogon's back. Though the most aggressive and unpredictable of her dragons he was also the smartest and the most trusting of her touch--while her armies would sail to Dorne she would fly ahead so she might know if they landed on friendly territory or no.

Who knew--Perhaps the next time her advisers and friends saw her she would be a Princess of Dorne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I will take this moment to refer all y'all over to the 'redqueenofwesteros' tumblr blog where I am occasionally uploading photosets of what I think certain shipkids to grow up to look like. I love all of your suggestions, and they can take me in really interesting directions researchwise and I don't want a single one of you to stop! That being said, please be kind to one another and go with an emoticon occasionally to indicate where you're going with something :)
> 
> I hope you all liked hearing from Doran while he's reminiscing, and Jon--however briefly--and Sansa and Dany! The plot is getting moving...! Also Sansa/Ellaria _is_ coming around the bend soon. Ish. Yes. I'm doing research. *serious nodding while the blushing creeps higher*
> 
> Also I must come out and say it: I rely on my readers to keep me in the lines and that's like half the reason I love hearing from all of you so frickin much. I think that this is very much a collaborative process, so I just wanted to come out and say thank you to every reviewer--if you reviewed once or have done on every chapter, I really really appreciate your input and time!
> 
> So yeah!


	42. Sansa, Ellaria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dornish history! Ellaria/Oberyn history!
> 
> OH--And Sansa-writing-under-Doran's-Seal-thing...Okay, I totally see and totally understand everyone's confusion and misgivings about that! I am not changing it because of reasons that bbanziaz saw and noted: letters to the Wall aren't...normal things. When you join up you pretty much forsake your family. You get contact with them if they donate resources to the wall or are general integral to the Watch's function. *coughStarkscough* Or you're a big fucking deal, and you get to do what you want *coughAemoncough*
> 
> Frivolous letters between siblings would get Jon in trouble, and Dornishmen know about etiquette for the Wall better than most because they basically all just send volunteers (Jon & Benjen willingly joining up kind of situation). Baddies like Rast & Karl don't make it. They go have a nice chat with Uncle Harmon in the Hellholt. 
> 
> Buuuut official correspondence between a head of state, such as Doran, and someone important on the Wall wouldn't be unheard of. Sansa herself can't send a letter under her own seal, and Doran might not want his seal used--that's why they have to ask.
> 
> ...At least that's how I see it in my head. I hope this clarifies things for everyone! Enjoy the chapter!

Sansa had been able to pray, truly pray, for the first time in what felt like years in the elegant Sept of Fhoserrio. Oberyn had accompanied her, though Ellaria had declined. She had rolled her ankle the day before and didn’t feel up to walking and flat-out refused the suggestion of a litter. Her body was letting her know how displeased it was with the situation, and she certainly listened well enough. Besides she kept a different faith, even though the Light of the Seven was certainly something she seemed to respect. 

Oberyn on the other hand took the visit as seriously as a septon. Though he had his moments of irreverence in the months she’d known him, there was yet a wide streak of piety in him that Sansa was curious of. It wasn’t often such a religious man also turned out to be both a bloodthirsty and a compassionate one. They had prayed together at each of the seven altars and Sansa had a headache from the incense by the time they reached the feet of the Stranger. Gazing at it Sansa felt a bizarre calm steal over herself. The people she was among understood mistrust and pain and a dozen other ills of the world, and here was a calm affirmation of that understanding.

 

While most depictions she’d ever seen of the Gods were of idealized, alien figures, the statues here appeared modeled on Dornishmen. It was this last statue of the Stranger that depicted what appeared to be a Valyrian if not a Targaryen—the hair painted a blued white, the tiniest filigree of silver to give it depth, and eyes the color of rubies above a long, straight nose and frowning lips.  How must the Targaryens and Dornishmen have hated one another, Sansa thought before murmuring in time with Oberyn’s prayer—the seven supplications falling from her lips as they hadn’t in more than a year. The Stranger was usually a robed figure, a long hood obscuring a dessicated, skeletal body, but here was what appeared to be a man as full of life as the Smith or the Warrior was usually shown. She knew the Sept of Fhoserrio was older than the Conquest, but obviously did not predate the coming of the Rhoynar—not if their Stranger bore the jeweled eyes and white hair of Valyria.

 

“Why is it called the Sept of Fhoserrio, Oberyn?” her question was soft as they walked up the steps out of the sept, her head pounding but her heart much lighter than it had been in a great while. She had never been able to pray safely in the Sept of Baelor and had resorted to the public prayers of her father’s old gods when she’d been in King’s Landing. She’d apparently forgotten the weight of the incense in her lungs since then, but Sansa now looked forward to remembering it. If the Gods were truthful then her mother was in one of the seven heavens, as well as her brother Robb and his wife, and her sister Arya. If the Gods were  good then her father was there too.

 

“It is named for Fhoserrio Nymeros Martell, a Ruling Princess of Dorne. Fhoserrio was the granddaughter of Nymeria Martell and Mors Nymerae, who translated the Seven Pointed Star into Rhoynish so that her grandmother’s people might write of and speak to the Seven in their own tongue. The Rhoynar had been seen as unclean by the Andals and though eager to adopt the Faith had been outcast from it. It is why when Nymeria sailed her thousand ships she sailed west instead of making her way north by land—she had nothing tying her or her people to anywhere in Essos.”

 

“If they could not have the Rhoyne they would refuse all else?”

 

“Just so, my love,” Oberyn said with a smile. They walked in silence for a little then, the people who recognized them calling pleasant greetings in mixes between Dornish and Andaii. They of course easily remembered Oberyn, who was as entrenched among the people as his brother was isolated from them, and Sansa knew she herself was recognizable when compared against rumor. Her skin, still incredibly light despite several sunburns over the last two months, and hair were definitely  not Dornish. If her grip on Oberyn’s arm was too tight he made no mention of it, only nodding for Ser Daemon to follow them a little closer. 

 

“Why did you…why did you call them by their opposite names? Nymeria and Mors, I mean,” Sansa asked, glancing up at him before focusing again on keeping her balance on the cobblestone street. It was no small wonder that she herself hadn’t yet taken a fall as Ellaria had. Sunspear was an old city—much younger than the castle at Winterfell had been, but it had certainly seen more people walk its streets—and there were still places where flagstones, brought into style by the Targaryens, hadn’t yet made an appearance. Given the fact that King’s Landing, a Targaryen city if there ever was one, was a place that Sansa hated from slum to spire she was glad of the ancient feeling of her husband’s home.

 

“He was hers, and she was his, and their children belonged to both of them. When he died and she remarried to an Uller lord her children by Mors needed proper distinction from the one she had for House Uller.” Sansa giggled then, her grip on his arm changing from steely to a hug. 

“You and Ellaria are cousins!” Oberyn looked down at her with an easy grin, sharing her mirth easily. 

 

“Oh, but my love I thought that was the done thing in north of the mountains—to fuck your cousins? Has the practice fallen so far from favor?” Sansa laughed, loud and clear for probably the first time since she’d left Winterfell, and her husband laughed with her. His pace never changed as he took his arm from her hands to put it about her waist to hold her close. He did have a point—his sister had married her cousin, however distantly, when she’d wed Rhaegar Targaryen. That thought sobered her however and though she still smiled gently her laughter died. Most marriages between the highborn were between strangers, and only the very lucky ended up in a situation they could make peace with and become happy within. She shuddered to think how many highborn women were just like Queen Cersei in a sense, and how few married good men as she and her mother both had. Her mother’s happiness with her father had perhaps blinded her to the realities of married life, and set her up to fall further when Joffrey proved ungallant. 

 

In the eyes of her father’s old gods, Rhaegar’s marriage to Princess Elia would have been chillingly prophetic—the Dornish Maiden wed to the Valyrian-looking Stranger. Slipping her hand around Oberyn’s waist, to hold him as close as he held her, Sansa knew that such a union had always been fated to end in death somehow and it brought tears to her eyes. If Oberyn noticed her tears, disguised with his easy trick of a happy grin, he made no mention of them. 

* * *

 

Ellaria sat in the window, watching the late afternoon hustle and bustle of Sunspear, her hand stroking her belly softly. The child had moved this morning which was her real reason for absenting herself from the visit to the sept. Though she loved Oberyn and now Sansa as well she occasionally needed time away from her lovers, away from the distractions they provided. She missed her daughters but knew that within the week they would retire to the Water Gardens and see them once more. Still, the fact that they were just hours away if she took a fast horse—it grated at her in ways she preferred her loved ones not to see. It was a disquiet of temper that she’d learned from her father and one that she worked at diligently to conceal. Out of any of her and Oberyn’s children, Sarella was most alike to her in this. 

 

As the babe wiggled again a smile touched Ellaria’s face as she remembered Oberyn’s arrival in the Hellholt more than a decade ago. He had come with only his squire, a handsome but pocked with youthful spots Daemon Sand, and a wetnurse for tiny Sarella. The girl’s skin was ebony within her garish orange swaddling—there would be no doubt of her parentage, should a random servant happen upon her. Her hair was sparse and tightly curled, her mother’s blood proving far stronger than Oberyn’s own. Ellaria, just nineteen then, had been instantly taken with the infant. 

 

How far their lives had taken them since that day when she’d flirtatiously informed a Prince of Dorne that he must give her his child before she would allow him to enter the Hellholt. Daemon had been young and heartbroken at being separated from his ‘one true love,’ Princess Arianne—Oberyn had been swaggering but beneath that surface was deeply unsure and conflicted, and Ellaria herself had been at first captivated by the handsome man and then angered with him when she learned what stirred his heart to sadness. 

 

Two, perhaps even three, bastards left behind him in his travels and his grief—and Ellaria, who had gladly grown up a Sand as she was sheltered and well-cared for within the Hellholt by her father’s knights and servants, had struck him with the back of her hand so hard his lip split. They had been talking out on her balcony, looking at the stars after a truly mind-blowing fuck, and though his shame had been evident in his tone she had been filled with horror. She had shared her bed with this man in trust and even love and he’d stood next to her and admitted ignoring the children he’d fathered. Ellaria had screamed and yelled at him until her voice broke and scratched, throwing whatever came to hand at him and ultimately chasing him from her rooms. 

 

The next morning she had been a perfect lady at her father’s breakfast table while Oberyn sat in silence. He’d not seen the maester for his split lip or the injuries her improvised weapons had caused him and Ellaria had found it hard to keep pity from her heart. He did truly look pathetic and sad—but she’d reminded herself that there were two, perhaps three, motherless little girls or boys out in the world. They suffered without succor and she refused to have a man who treated one bastard better than the rest for the simple accident of having been presented with the actual child.

 

Her father Harmon had watched with amusement as Oberyn opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again to speak to her—and her own overlooking of his attempts. It had been well known in those days that Prince Doran’s younger brother was wild, given to bouts of irresponsibility because he had little purpose to his family as the second son. Doran was at the time  happily married to Princess Mellario and carried out Dornish justice and ruling duties admirably and honorably. There was no mention of ever reining Oberyn in because why should there have been?  Did the man not deserve to grieve as he wished? , was often asked in private when dismays were expressed at his behavior. 

 

Ellaria had felt that there was grief—and there was reckless abandon. Her lover back then had practiced the latter, not the former. She’d dutifully sipped on moon tea for several years into their relationship, wanting to be able to leave him easily should he go back to his nearly suicidal ways. Even her pregnancy with Elia had been a test—not once had Oberyn ever stayed with a woman long enough to know for sure that she quickened with his child, and she had told him she would ask Doran to give her Oberyn’s other daughters if he left her. 

 

In truth his naming their daughter  Elia had been as much for his own healing as an attempt to comfort  Ellaria’s worries. He had said, after softly speaking the name over Elia’s soft forehead, that he could no more leave Elia than he could her mother. Rubbing her hand on her belly now, Ellaria did not remember a time when Oberyn had wept harder than when she’d allowed him to hold her as she put Elia to her breast the first time. Doran had told her that Oberyn loved too fiercely and until that night she had not quite fully believed him. Catching a glimpse of bright red hair in the crowds below a smile touched Ellaria’s lips—her lover was wayward because he felt too much to direct it at a single person. It was a boon that Sansa had become their lover as well as his wife. They each needed her in their way, and both of them would benefit from her gentle heart being near to theirs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so there has been more nastiness in some of the comment strings than there has been camaraderie so please take this with as much love as I mean it:
> 
> Keep your words kind. There's no need to put down other ships in your comments, there's no need to put down other people's faceclaim ideas for characters that haven't yet made appearances, and let me say this that even I am unsure of what certain characters will look like in the end so please do not say that other people's ideas are wrong or lesser given some of the fun faceclaims that have been suggested and that I am toying with. There's no need to be vitriolic to anyone. If you can do that then that would make my heart pretty glad, my friends. 
> 
> I will try and reply to as many of ch41's comments as possible before I have to go to a work-related event. The rest of the comments will get answered then!
> 
> Let me know what you think of this chapter--I know it was a bit history heavy, it's because there's a big chapter coming up and I want a little bit of a buffer between last chapter and it :)


	43. Obara, Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oberyn! Sansa/Ellaria! and Doran! Sort of. I had a lot of trouble with this chapter for some reason, so I do apologize for it in advance. None of these three wanted to actually cooperate D:
> 
> Oh, and beware there be a bit of Sansa/Ellaria smut. Not much, but it's there.

Bara preferred the spear when she fought her father while her sister Nym chose a blunted chroysar—a dagger a foot in length, nearly a short sword rather than a dagger. It was a Rhoynish style, copied from the sword of Nymeria,  _ Nymeros Shabanohat _ , Nymeria’s Vengeance. Their uncle possessed Nymeros Shabanohat, and their cousin Arianne would hold it after he did, but the style of weapon was a common one among families in the essdorne. 

Chroysar meant sorrow sword and such weapons had been forged by Rhoynish peoples for more than a thousand years—the ancient blades had a certain alacrity at getting through dragonhide, it was rumored, but it had been centuries since there had been a chance to test it out. Rhaenys Targaryen’s dragon Meraxes had never come close to it whilst living, but the maester of Sunspear at the time of the Conquest had written that Nymeros Shabanohat had been proven on the beast’s corpse. 

Their father looked between them in the flickering light of the torches, taking in Nym’s choice as well as the blunted spear in Bara’s hands, before shrugging out of his long tunic, standing only in his breeches, and reaching for the weapon they’d teased him over during supper last night—the boloron. Made from woven rope, linen braided with chains of steel and iron and a worthy substitute for a ‘proper’ weapon, the boloron was a new invention. Birthed from necessity during the Ninepenny War, Dornish merchants had known that their if their ships appeared armed they would be treated as combatants—but that they still required weapons for defense. The solution had been to braid their belts and other short pieces of rope with bits of chain, even links from their sigil chains—and according to their father, their grandfather Olyvar Toland, had demanded veterans of that war teach both Doran and Oberyn the way of it. 

Ser Olyvar and Princess Loreza had both greatly admired the sailors and merchants for their ingenuity and Obara’s grandmother had asked the men and women to describe their various weapons to the maester of Sunspear, Maester Dirron then, to be recorded for posterity and future use. Bara and her sister Nym had never truly learned the practice, though, their father allowing them to choose their own favored weapons. He himself was a curious man, though, and had learned the ways of many weapons simply to understand them. _There is not enough knowledge in the world to sate Father’s mind_ , Bara thought to herself as she stepped forward to take her chance at beating him. He was the elder and without a proper weapon—but he was also the wiser and had seen the uses of the weapon he held. 

“To the seventh blow and breakaway?”

“If the Gods are good, Daughter,” he said with a feral grin. 

“And if they aren’t, Father?” Nym called, passing her blunted chroysar between her hands. Part of what made fighting Dornishmen scary, Bara reflected as she and her father circled one another, was the fact that they trusted in their skills enough to let go of their weapons. Specifically—fighting with chroysars involved tossing the dagger up into the air, spinning away from a blow, and catching the blade the next moment. 

“Then you’ll beg out by stepping backwards three times and dropping your spear, and your sister may have her try at bloodying her poor father,” he said as he wrapped one end of the rope around his wrist. Bara and Nym grinned then, knowing that the three of them could be at this for some time. 

 

 

* * *

It was early in the morning, just before dawn, and they’d been awake since Oberyn had left—muttering about having to teach his girls a thing or two about respect for their elders, humor in his tone despite his words. He’d lit a few candles but otherwise had left them in peace, giving each of them a couple of kisses to their shoulders and faces. He’d been humming a jaunty tune as he closed the door behind him, and beyond it they could hear his good-natured teasing of Nymeria’s yawns and Obara’s returning jabs. 

Sansa had turned to cuddle into Ellaria when Oberyn had gotten up to stretch and dress. As a girl she’d never imagined sharing loving kisses or sleepy mornings with a woman, but where Oberyn was hard lines and calloused hands Ellaria was sloping curves and cool fingers. Cool except for when they twined into Sansa’s hair as she kissed her, held her—especially in these early mornings when the sun hadn’t yet crested the horizon. 

In the darkness she let Ellaria lean over her, kissing and sucking at her breasts. They were as tender as when her moon blood fell and, with how her companion moaned and gasped when Sansa cautiously returned the favor, would only grow more so. When Ellaria left her chest alone to kiss her, Sansa opened her legs and hitched one thigh around the other woman’s hip, shivering when the top of her lover’s thigh pressed against her center. Dimly she realized Ellaria was in a similar situation with Sansa’s own leg but didn’t have time to think overmuch on it. 

Ellaria was rocking, gently and slowly, back and forth—holding her as close as she could, kissing Sansa anywhere she could reach. Her belly, growing larger by the week, was firm where it pressed to Sansa’s and made it so Ellaria couldn’t quite lay chest to chest with her.

“You are so lovely, so soft, my dear,” she said, slipping one hand down to Sansa’s pearl, huffing a laugh at Sansa’s sharp intake of air and the way her hips bucked at the touch. The candles Oberyn had lit for them didn’t reach far, but Sansa was able to make out how Ellaria’s dark eyes glittered and the hungry smile on her face as her fingers slipped lower to push into Sansa’s body. She arched at the feeling, clenching her eyes tightly shut and sliding her hands up and down Ellaria’s back. 

The fingers in her sex twisted and stroked in maddening patterns, and soon Sansa’s legs twitched and shook—trying to close and keep those fingers still against the places that made her feel so good. Ellaria’s kisses were wet on Sansa’s mouth and the roll of her sex on Sansa’s thigh was equally slick. Her lover gasped happily when she hesitantly put her hand between them there, her thumb finding Ellaria’s pearl and touching it gently. 

“Am I—is it okay?” she managed to whisper, her breath hitching along with the steady curling and thrusting of Ellaria’s fingers. She got a sweet kiss on her cheek and then her lips in return. 

“Faster perhaps, in a circle if you can manage it my love,” Ellaria managed to reply, repeating her request with a demonstration on Sansa’s own body. She had to bite her lip to keep from crying out but managed to copy the instructions. On the nights she’d spent with Ellaria and Oberyn she had allowed the other woman to kiss her and much more, but this was different. _This is the way that women make love,_ Sansa realized as she felt her body begin to ache from tension, her release near to breaking, _they don’t need a man or his prick for it at all._ She couldn’t control her sounds of pleasure then, little moans and sharp gasps, and a certain hiss from Ellaria was present when she pressed a little harder on her pearl. 

“When our girls are here, my love, and our bodies healed I will show you such wonders,” Ellaria said, her touches focused and intense as she realized how close Sansa was. “Pleasures and sweetness as you’ve never known, everything that is beautiful—but for now unwise. Would you like that?”

Sansa nodded, words beyond her as she whimpered through the spasms of her body as Ellaria finally helped her crest into pleasure. For a few minutes only their breaths, sighing out into evenness as a doze threatened to take over Sansa. Ellaria for her part wrapped herself closer to Sansa and kissed the drops of sweat gathered at her temple and hairline. Something nagged at the back of her mind, that this had been unequal, but even as the room lightened with the sunrise Sansa couldn’t remember it. 

 

 

* * *

 

When they left Sunspear for the Water Gardens her goodbrother asked her to sit with him on his litter and Ellaria had kissed her before being goaded onto her own litter by Oberyn. He had been giddier than the simple boy at Winterfell, Sansa remembered thinking, when Ellaria had told them of the movements of her babe. For all that he was a warlike, bloodthirsty man her husband seemed to dearly love children and little made his heart sing higher than the prospect of more. 

Arianne and Obara— Bara,  Sansa corrected herself—remained behind them in Sunspear, while Nymeria and Tyene accompanied their party. The part of Sansa that was well-tired of traveling was glad that this could potentially be the last major trip she would take for at least several months. Though it was a mite strange to sit with Doran for the journey, she was also glad to be spared riding a horse when the urge for a midday nap had been getting stronger by the day. 

Her time spent in King’s Landing had served her well for her dealings with her goodbrother—the swellings of gout on his hands did not alarm her, nor did his reluctance to show his feet or legs beneath the blankets on his lap even now. Instead she took her sewing, stashed carefully in a small satchel, and returned to embroidering the nameday outfit for Ellaria’s daughter. It was nearly finished, heavy from the designs she’d sewn into the fabric, and it occupied her hands and attention in case Doran wanted the hours to pass in quietude. 

“When we reach the Water Gardens, would you spend the afternoon with me in my solar? There is much to speak of between us and Sunspear does have a few spies here and there—I did not want to expose either of our secrets to them over the last several weeks. My home is a much better place to speak of such things in strict confidence.”

Sansa glanced over at him, a man advanced far later in years than her father ever had and yet law demanded she call him brother—but Dorne allowed her her own choices and own mind, and she found herself happy to rely on him as family. Whatever his motive had been a fortnight ago in giving her his beloved sister’s sigil necklace she knew he would not have parted with the jewelry lightly. 

“It would be a pleasure, Prince Doran,” she replied, smiling at him gently. Doran’s returning smile was warm but there was something that lingered in his eyes and Sansa resisted shivering at the memory of when she’d seen such a look before. It had been on Tyrion Lannister’s face, in full and not simply his eyes, when he had been too late to break the news of her mother and brother’s deaths at the Twins. 

Whatever it was that her goodbrother meant to speak of with her he clearly already found it distressing and so Sansa did her best to bring her defenses up once more. Oberyn, who saw those defenses perhaps the soonest, would be displeased she was sure but his displeasure mattered little to her against the prospect of more nights of tears and screaming herself awake. If she might guard herself against hurts then she might avoid disturbing her lovers with her own freshly-exposed grief. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So....tell me everything! Let me know what you think of this chapter--this chapter which I so heartily thank you for reading!


	44. Tyrion, Oberyn, Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These characters keep not cooperating! I do hope you enjoy Tyrion butting in like a butt...because he wouldn't leave me be. 
> 
> Sooo yeah! We have arrived in the Water Gardens!

The voyage from King’s Landing to Sunspear was to be far shorter than the one to Braavos. Tyrion had thought himself well used to the rolling of the seas but nothing prepared him for the roughness of the southern Narrow Sea as the captain navigated them down towards Greenstone. He’d been told that they would reassess and resupply while there. The Estermonts these days were petulantly loyal to the Crown after the death of King Renly, and would provide them proper rooms and entertainment should the weathersooths predict a dangerous crossing of the Sea of Dorne—or that they suggest a landing not in Sunspear as planned but at the Tor. Either option meant a letter to Sunspear telling of the changes, and either option meant a cooling of already lukewarm relations with the Martells of Dorne.

It was only the vainest of hopes that the Martells would help them, but Tyrion reminded himself of his father’s hollow words as he’d seen him off. _They’ll work with us as the Tyrells do or the lands they’ve won from between that girl’s legs will be lost to them—you make_ Prince _Doran understand that, and his violent brother. Should they hide behind their mountains and their mum of grief make them know that theirs will be treated as the gravest of betrayals. I do not play without pieces even now._

Though the words were well-empty, he knew, he hoped that whatever spies—be they meager or sumptuous in number and access—that the Martells had in King’s Landing those spies had not yet penetrated that far into his father’s household. He would be lucky if Prince Doran believed him—he would be luckier still if Prince Oberyn did, having been amongst the court for several months during the past year. How would he find Sansa, he wondered? Word had come that she swelled with child, though it was yet to be fully confirmed. Another thing to gather information on for the Crown—did the Martells so soon have claim upon the North through the last Stark? Must the bets begin to see if she would finally give the notorious Prince Oberyn a son, and moreover a son of good name and better breeding?

They’d kept her well ensconced in King’s Landing, he’d only seen her in passing during the weeks after her marriage. Her hair loose and flowing down her shoulders in bright and untangled waves, Dornish braidwork keeping her locks from falling in her face but nothing else most times. Her hair had been nearly as long as he was tall. Her dresses had at first been of what must have been a demure Dornish style but what looked positively wild on willowy Sansa Stark as she wore them covered by long tunics obviously lifted from her husband’s wardrobe—and then after that her dresses had been of a more northron bent, but in garish oranges and blues and grays. Well, he thought, they would have been garish on any woman other than one clinging to Prince Oberyn Martell’s—or his lover’s—arm through the Red Keep.

Instead he had witnessed in glimpses with days between them the girl, who had survived by following the currents of the river that was the court, leave the waters and walk tall above its banks. She’d always been destined for a wedding night like the one she’d gotten, he’d convinced himself of on the voyage back from Braavos, but at least she’d somehow made peace with it. Still he carried a fierce anger in his breast at the words put against the actions of Oberyn Martell. He’d thought that somehow giving her to the Dornish would be merciful in entirety—instead it had been otherwise.

 _She bears another man’s child. A babe that could have been yours had you stomached your unease and put one in her. A child to give you a lordship of your own, if only for awhile, and now her beauty and good heart are lost to you,_ he told himself as he watched Bronn awkwardly try to get his wife to dance with him below deck one evening. The man had taught her a few dances on the way back from Braavos, surprised as they all were when Sweet Lollys proved biddable to the task. Her smiles and eyes both far too wide as she’d learned and they had all, Tyrion, their men, and the crew, had watched in silence as Bronn resolutely repeated the instructions in simple words with a sweet voice.

They’d all begun calling her Sweet Lollys, taking their lead from Bronn. Though she still woke the entire ship once in every while with her screams and nightmares and terror of her child’s wails they’d begun to warm to her. In many men’s hearts a tenderness lingered for defenseless women—their nursing tales of damsels and princesses in the back of their minds as they watched. To be sure they all knew also that Bronn’s main concern was getting Sweet Lollys to depend on and trust him over her own mother, for it was his marriage to the simple girl that might make him a Lord of a castle and lands. But yet there was something that touched them in seeing his doting on her, selfish it might have been.

As a storm raged above them now Tyrion watched his sellsword turned knight turned lord pace—the septa and wetnurse tended to their charges and left Bronn with little to do other than give his simple wife a kind word when she looked to him through her tears. Tyrion had been stupid, unbelievably stupid, he decided as he watched them through despondent eyes .

“Next time I have a moral dilemma about something and you feel me about to act the…idiot,” he glanced at Lollys then, “I would have you take something heavy to the back of my head. Repeatedly if needed.” Bronn chuckled, patting Lollys’ hand when she reached for him for a moment. Having been privy to Tyrion's miserations for more than three months now he knew the tack of Tyrion's thoughts.

“I told you you wanted to fuck her and that you ought to fuck her. You didn’t and now you’re in the worst place a man can be—made to bow and simper before the man that puts his cock in her a’nights,” Bronn said, squatting down in front of Tyrion to fill up his goblet, “and the only worse thing’an that is knowing if she likes him to do it or not.”

“And which of those is worse, between the two?” Tyrion asked as his friend carefully made his way across the room to fill up the goblet of a rather green looking Artos Flowers.

“If she likes it or not?” Bronn was focused on not spilling any of the wine as Artos tried to keep a steady cup for him to aim at.

Tyrion couldn’t find it in himself to speak his reply, only nod and hope his friend saw from the corner of his eye. Prince Oberyn was famous for his way with women and men, those of high and low birth—the pious and the godless all. He didn’t want to know if Sansa shared the man’s bed willingly or happily—but he found he had to know, to prepare himself somehow, or else he might run mad.

“It’s not been my experience either way, but then save until recently I’ve not been the sentimental type. I s’pose if I liked her, really was attached, it would freeze my guts to know she liked it, wanted it even—but it would boil’em right cooked if she didn’t.” Bronn stared at him a second, his face blurry in the dim candlelight they had in their greatroom. Whatever he saw on Tyrion's face bid him continue speaking, though.

“Before you ask, I ain’t fightin’ no Red Viper for you on account of your bleeding heart. You _wanted_ to fuck her—you got told to fuck her by smarter men than me—and you didn’t. This world is a hard one and you ought to know that better than many.” _You've only yourself to blame_ , those words said. 

“Indeed, I ought to, but it seems I keep forgetting along the way that good deeds count naught towards the scales of the Gods, only the necessary ones.”

* * *

 

Oberyn rode from the front of the small company back to where his brother and Sansa were. They’d just crested the last hills between Sunspear and the Water Gardens and they would reach the palace within an hour or two. His brother never rested while traveling, even the best trained litter bearers jostled him enough to cause pain, so it did not surprise him to meet Doran’s eyes as he rode up. Sansa did surprise him though, tucked on his brother’s shoulder as she was. Though his wife was tall and well-grown Oberyn saw a glimpse of the child that little Tyrion Lannister had seen in her.

 _Yet he felt it best to preserve that child rather than let the woman live_ , Oberyn thought to himself as he informed his brother of how soon they would arrive. Sansa-the-girl-child had been mortally wounded years ago and that Tyrion had not seen it pointed towards a kind of misguided hope that Oberyn had long ago given up—all he had seen, nearly half a year ago, had been a woman clinging to the rocks amidst the storm that roiled around her. He admired her strength, for if he’d had to face what she had…Oberyn was entirely sure that he didn’t have the fortitude for such.

“She fell asleep as I spoke of fostering in Salt Shore, how I so enjoyed Lady Gargalen’s singing myself and her son to sleep. I would speak with her alone when we reach home, brother,” Doran said softly, glancing at Sansa as she slept. Oberyn nodded, already knowing what his brother would speak to Sansa about. They owed it to her father to tell her, to have one Stark know the truth that they’d helped hide. And, looking at the needlework on Sansa’s lap, there were other matters to discuss and decide on with her.

“I will support her decisions, brother, I only need know what those are,” he said before riding back to the front of the group. If Sansa wanted the North back, he would see it done. If she wanted to live in quiet peace here in Dorne and forget everything in her past that had pained her he would build her a keep with his own hands if need be. In years past the idea of a wife and trueborn children had in honesty confused and alarmed him—but not for reasons speculated on across Westeros. If he had a wife of his own and children bearing the Martell name—if he didn’t guide them right then they would be a threat to his brother, to his niece and nephews.

Oberyn had seen enough of unwise seconds sons and the actions of their even less wise children that he’d vowed not to add to the world’s pain in such a way if he could help it. Bastards were dangerous enough to trueborn heirs, but his girls were not his worry back then. His worry had been that he would raise a trueborn child up as a proud Martell, heir to everything that made their House great. Oddly enough this worry wasn’t present in his mind as he’d climbed the steps of the Tower of the Hand back in King’s Landing to meet with Lord Tywin. His only thought had been that if he didn’t at least try to get Sansa Stark out of the prison she’d been thrown in he would never sleep through another night in peace.

 

* * *

 

Sansa only woke when the litter was gently brought to a halt. The bearers did not lower it and she was glad to get down rather than haul herself up. She’d fallen asleep on Doran’s shoulder as the air warmed as the morning flew past and she felt well rested now as the servants and squires bustled around them in the courtyard. Oberyn himself appeared with Doran’s chair, passing a kiss to her hand before helping his brother into the device.

Looking around Sansa realized that this was the Martell stronghold as much as Winterfell had been her father’s. Palace and place of laughter it might be, there was no place in Dorne with a tighter leash on the household than here. Had she been brought here against her will Sansa knew that there would be no way out. If here against her will the Water Gardens were but lightless dungeons, but by it they were an impenetrable bastion. Seven domed towers, two or three stories high, outlined the main complex, bronze fences linking them. The elegant workings had green tints amongst the fine polished bars, the sea air working at the metal despite all efforts, and those bars stood twice the height of a man. Sansa walked at a docile pace next to Doran and Oberyn as they made their way beyond that fencing.

Pools of water, fresh or salt she didn’t know, stretched out to either side. Trees heavy with fruits, even bare boughs hung low with abundant branches, and all around them birdsong. The air was sweet, the barest pungeance of seafoam, and though high clouds raced across the sky as the Dornish Winter made swift upon them she felt the air be warm and wonderful on her skin.

The walls of the palace were covered in marble, smooth and shining white and green. The pavers of the walkways, done in the softest pink marble from the Riverlands, were burnished to an extent that Sansa wondered how easily a person might slip from their feet on them in the rain.

Looking behind her as they walked beneath the archway entry Sansa saw a wider encirclement of gardens and canals, ringed by high walls of intense fortification and manned by soldiers in Martell colors. The Hound had perhaps been wrong that all men were killers but his wisdom did shine light on even this beautiful place. All men were fighters—aggressors or defenders, it mattered little, but the good of a place such as this only existed because people such as Doran and his family stood up to protect it.

“You are to spend an afternoon with my brother, wife?” Sansa turned to face forward once more, glancing at Oberyn and Doran. Her husband pushed the wheeled chair and for his part a certain tension had left Doran’s shoulders. She had been told this place was a favorite among many Dornishmen who remembered weeks or months during the years of Summer spent swimming in the pools and canals and climbing the trees and eating the fruit from high among the limbs. She had also been told that there was no place dearer to the Martells than their Water Gardens.

“I believe such a plan was made, husband, if you are agreeable to it.”

“Oh my love I would have you spend your hours here as you will—all here will only ask for your time and avoid assuming you’ll give it. Ellaria and I will make sure our girls are presentable and you will meet them before supper perhaps?”

Sansa nodded, a wide smile on her face as she touched his arm to stop him. He got a kiss for his words and she nudged him away from Doran’s chair so she might set him free to see his children sooner.

“Now, where to, goodbrother?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So let me know what you thought of the chapter!


	45. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doran begins to hear what Sansa went through whilst in King's Landing, and Sansa tries to admire the gardens.

Her boots, made of softest calfskin and gifted to her by Tyene while still in the Hellholt, echoed in the hallway as she pushed Doran’s chair towards his private solar. It was an interesting device, easy enough to work and she could see that if he wished it the prince could operate it by himself. It would have to be a mighty wish, though, since it probably would cause his gouty hands great pain. The hallways they walked through were a myriad of colors as sunlight filtered through colored glass windows set directly into the ceiling and walls and what would have been an ominous walk turned into a quietly beautiful one. 

“Was this…original?” she had to ask as blue and pink lights surrounded them. Doran seemed to know the bend of her thoughts without more explanation and his voice was lovely and measured as he spoke. 

“Prince Maron loved his bride immensely and thought her the most beautiful woman he had yet seen, this stranger from the Six Kingdoms, sister of King Daeron II. It is said that it delighted him to see her walk these halls, the glass colors changing her hair from white to blue to golden to purple. They were perhaps a bit alike to you and my brother, I think.” 

Sansa swallowed back her questions then, because she’d started to read a few Dornish history books whilst in Sunspear and saw easily what her companion meant. She had thought herself destined for far different things than living as a princess in Dorne, but that fate having been hers she found little about it disagreeable. Though Princess Daenerys I Targaryen had loved another she had learned to love her Dornish husband—a husband who had doted on her and showered her with what gifts he could provide her. 

A palace like this was Sansa’s main fear in asking Oberyn for any sort of gift—he and his family had a history of ostentation and gave gifts with disregard for their expense or value. She touched her hand to the sigil where it hung above her heart for just a moment. It was enough Valyrian steel to make a precious weapon from, and yet they’d kept it all these years. They’d given it to her, the princess-become-queen who had escaped King’s Landing while their own sister had not. 

“I miss my brothers,” she said softly, knowing that Jon Snow had meant well when he’d told her that Bran and Rickon yet lived—but it was painful knowing that by the time she went North, if she  ever went North, they might have forgotten her or have died. Even if war did not claim them they were mere boys alone in the world and Winter was, at long last, coming to the North. 

“I would think it strange if you did not, goodsister,” Doran said as they approached the guarded door of his solar. Sansa couldn’t be sure but the knight guarding it looked alike to Oberyn and Doran…but not quite. A cousin, she decided, he must be a cousin of theirs, and that is why he holds such a precious watch. Behind them, at a distance of fifteen or more paces, walked Ser Daemon Sand and he nodded a greeting to the guard when the man opened the door to the solar for them. Neither Ser Daemon nor the nameless Martell knight accompanied them into the room, however, and Sansa’s hands fell away from Doran’s chair as she stared. 

The room was completely open on one side, the balcony overlooking a series of large pools where children caroused and laughed with one another. There were guards with watchful eyes turned on the balcony, their stances tensing as they saw who accompanied their prince, but otherwise the room was the opposite of every dank meeting space she’d ever seen employed in King’s Landing. The Tower of the Hand flashed before her eyes, the last time she’d been in that place had been the beginning of her journey here to this one—another meeting to determine her future, somehow, but this path was one she would have a voice in. 

“This is the room I met my siblings in, for the first time,” Doran’s voice was soft as Sansa remembered to take him to his desk properly. He gestured with one gnarled hand towards a chaise near the balcony, saying, “my mother, Princess Loreza, sat there with Oberyn at her breast, Elia nearly falling asleep on her lap. Our father, Olyvar, stood behind her smiling and coaxing me forward until Oberyn broke into a lusty cry.  _ Here, Doran, hold your brother _ _,_ Father said as he took Oberyn from Mother’s arms,  _ he is a strong one is he not? _ Lord and Lady Gargalen had informed on me, I found, that I’d been so sure of the demise of each of those precious mites.”

Sansa did not say anything, only walked to sit on the chaise he’d indicated, her hand rubbing absently at her belly. Still no blood, still a child inside, she told herself. Oberyn had told her of the troubles Martell women had had with birthing their children and that he was glad she shared none of his blood in her veins. 

“The terrible thing, Sansa, was that at least with Elia I was not wrong. It has torn me apart for these twenty years, to sit by my fire and tend it rather than stand tall against those who did her harm—to leash my own brother who was Elia’s twin in everything but birthwater.” He trailed off into silence and Sansa looked away from him out to the garden pools where the children laughed and screeched.  _ They must be freshwater to have lilies in them _ _,_ she thought to herself before composing a reply for Doran. 

“Perhaps Oberyn has found out and told you, I do not know, but…I was made to look upon my father’s head after Joffrey put it on a spike. They murdered my Septa for telling me to bar the door against the Kingsguard, they probably ran my sister to the ground like a dog—they killed her dancing instructor, I was told, and his body was thrown into the Blackwater without so much as a ‘Stranger take you,’ muttered over his corpse. I could not cry or disagree,” she said, staring resolutely at the children who played so heartily in her goodfamily’s gardens. She’d long ago found that looking at something could distract her from the horrible urge to weep or throw things or scream. 

“I was made to say my sister lived but took to her bed in grief at our father’s traitorous ways—I was brought before,” and now a tremble in her voice, for this was new to her litany of pains, “the king by his kingsguard to be told that my mother and brother were dead. A—a present, he said, for my recent wedding to his uncle, and did I—d—did I—I not rejoice that when my child, the monstrous spawn of his uncle Imp, slid from between my legs that it would not darken the halls of my goodfamily’s holdings but those of the traitorous Starks?” Tears flowed down her face, as they hadn’t that awful day while Joffrey stared her down, but here she wept without fear. Robb and Mother had been her last hope at the time—Lord Baelish had long-gone, and Lord Tyrion was good to her in all the wrong ways for the wrong reasons, and the last of her family had been making a war with intent to rescue her. 

It was amazing she’d not flung herself from the battlements or some other high place—but then there had been a deep desire to live. That should she live through these years under Joffrey she would see to it that those had harmed her would die in accordance to her father’s old gods. Even if a man like Stannis Baratheon had come to King’s Landing and killed her for being married to a Lannister she would have welcomed it if the deaths of her abusers only came first. 

Doran made a low sound of pain as he started to roll his chair towards the balcony, near where she sat on his mother’s chaise. Sansa grasped one hand around her sigil, thinking that perhaps she and Doran were more alike than many people were in this world. When she made to stand to help him though he waved her back and finished the short journey himself. 

“Among those who harmed you, who lives? The scars upon your flesh did not weal and welt there themselves, the skin did not bruise and break by the will alone of that boy king—though I shudder to think what joy he might have taken should the ability have visited itself on him.”

Sansa looked away from the gardens, the happy children, and tried as much as possible to keep her tears from spilling over her eyelashes as she looked at Doran. He, on the other hand, resolutely faced the gardens as though the view was the only thing that might keep him calm during this interview. There was an iron tightness to how his jaw clenched that Sansa had seen on Oberyn and Obara—and she knew,  knew , that those she named now would meet ends such as that of Gregor Clegane if they were lucky, but that they would without doubt die by Dornish hands for their crimes against her. 

So, knowing she was sending men to queue before the Stranger himself, Sansa closed her eyes and ignored how the tears ran hot down her cheeks. When she opened them once more she looked out at the gardens, beginning to commit them to memory. Doran certainly had found a good coping mechanism when speaking of the evils of the world, to look at something so good and pure and hopeful. 

“Ser Meryn, of House Trant and knight of the Kingsguard,” in the corner of her eye she saw her goodbrother’s hand spasm on his lap, “Ser Boros, of House Blount, knight of the Kingsguard. Ser Arys, of House Oakheart, knight of the Kingsguard,” and so it went for several minutes and finally Sansa arrived at the last names on her list—those who had never truly laid hand or wound to her but who were so deeply responsible for her suffering. “Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock, Hand of the King—and his daughter, Queen Cersei of the House Baratheon.”

Silence reigned the room, though the happy squeals of children still filled the courtyard and pools before their balcony. Sansa’s tears had dried, leaving her cheeks feeling tight along the lines where those tears had fallen. She wished for Ellaria or Oberyn’s comforting hands on her shoulders, but knew that this meeting was far from over. 

“Ser Arys, who came to my household with Princess Myrcella—that Ser Arys, of the Kingsguard?” He did not want to believe it, she realized, but was nevertheless accepting of her words. It sent a thrill of terror through Sansa to think of men who so believed a woman’s words that she might condemn so many to death with them. The man with her was king in all but name of his people—his power long leashed and well banked, and now to be used for her aid however belated.

“He did not want to—he alone protested when they would beat me. He took no joy of it, but—he did do it.” Doran nodded, his eyes still faraway. 

“It makes sense, how unwillingly he speaks of his time as Joffrey’s pet—how studiously he looks after Princess Myrcella when Martell knights pass by. Stands between them. I had thought it zealousness but now I know it for what it is: guilt. I will see he makes amends to you, if you will hear them,” Doran said. Sansa looked over at him and stood to take his shoulders. Her night terrors had been receding in these last months and she needed comfort away from her memories less so than Doran right now.

“If he is earnest I will see him. I would have Ser Daemon there, though.”

“And your husband?” Sansa shook her head, already knowing why this conversation itself was private from Oberyn. She knew that her husband, sweet and studious in his care of her, wouldn’t be able to sit through an audience with one who’d laid hand to her. Not without violence, at least. 

“Near at hand, but not present. I fear Ser Arys would not survive the confession let alone the apology.” Doran chuckled, looking up at her as she rolled his chair a little so the sunlight fell on his knees but not his face. He had the same dark eyes as Oberyn, a certain jauntiness in them as he looked at her. 

“It will be as you wish, after I’ve had private words with Arys. Oberyn…would you break this news to him, or I? His reaction might…” that happy look faded from his face then, something cooler stealing across it. Sansa gave him a wry smile. She loved her husband now but with love came understanding of the one beloved. 

“I know few ways to restrain his rage should it go unchecked,” she murmured, “if he must know I beg that you help him through the knowing.” Doran nodded, shifting gingerly in his chair and adjusting the blanket over his legs. Sansa leaned on the railing, looking at her reflection in the pool that lapped at the stones just below them. There were fish there in the blue-green waters, bright Martell yellows and oranged reds with shocks of white on their flanks. 

Even if she never went home to Winterfell, she felt that this place was one she would grow content in—raise her children here, and tell them tall-tales of snow and wolves. She’d seen far, far worse fates in life than one spent caring for her husband’s brother and watching children play. 

“Your brother Jon writes again, Arianne gave me the letter just before we left the palace,” Doran said, reaching into his tunic and holding the letter out. Turning, Sansa took it with a smile, flipping it over in her hands a few times—it was unopened this time, Arianne and Doran now knowing to whom it was truly directed. The black seal of the Watch was familiar to her, having often helped Maester Luwin deliver letters from the ravenry to her father’s solar. Letters from the Lord Commander, letters from Uncle Benjen—all bearing this seal. Now such letters came for her, and so she believed in her heart—somewhere deep, somewhere secret—that someday she might receive them as Lady of Winterfell. The correspondence would come and go that much faster, she knew. 

“There is something I would speak to you of regarding your father’s son, Sansa. It may upset you, but it is a secret my brother and I have kept for Eddard Stark for twenty years—would you keep it for us, now? For your father?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments and input! I love it! I hope you loved this chapter too :D


	46. Oberyn, Jon, Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oberyn & his babies! Jon! Sansa finds out more stuff!
> 
> I'm so very thankful for everyone who is taking the time to read, thank you all so much! Sorry for the long update turn-around...

Word had travelled fast through the hallways of the palace and their girls raced towards them the instant Oberyn opened the door to their chambers. He caught Doree and Loree in his arms, laughing and spinning in a circle before hitching them to sit astride each side of his waist. Elia ran to her mother, talking a mile a minute about how big Ellaria’s belly was already, and Obella hugged his waist for a moment before shyly asking Ellaria if she could touch her stomach-—the Septa had said it might move, she mumbled, obviously half afraid of her own mother even when given permission to press her small hands to Ellaria’s stomach.

Setting his youngest girls down, petting a hand over each of their heads, he reached for Ellaria’s hand to bring her to sit down on the bed. Elia stood aside from all of them then, still upset at him for leaving in the first place. Though he’d not wanted her to know all of the truth about his sister she had found it—his girl, his blood, a Martell through and through with a sharp mind and a keen intellect, had found out when she was eight. Months ago he’d gathered his family in the same way as he did now, but then it had been to tell them he was to go to King’s Landing. It was late in the evening, and the next morning he and Ellaria would ride for Sunspear to meet with Doran—and then head to see the little butcher king wed his rose. 

The elder girls had all been quiet, their stares serious but understanding. If they worried for him they did not show him, save for a certain brightness that was just almost a tear in Bara’s eye. Bellee, Doree, and Loree were a little too young to understand much more other than Ama and Ysa were going on a trip. Elia on the other hand had thrown a hurricane of a tantrum, begging for him to stay and not go away. To not leave her. She’d fallen asleep sobbing in his arms as he held her and stroked her hair, humming a lullaby his own father had done over him as a young child.

Though composed the next morning, Elia had still been incredibly angry at him. Twitching away from the hand he laid on her shoulder one moment, but the next she had held him as tightly as she could. Ellaria had had to pry the girl’s arms from around him with sweet words and kisses. When he’d gotten up on his horse he’d called back to her— _ Ny ghael batlahat—ii vraesta nael ny ghae ii fot karys nael.  _

_ My pepper—I love you, I will see you soon. _

He’d had to steel himself against her loud sobs and they’d echoed in his dreams for weeks. He should have fostered her, as he’d fostered Nym and Enny out to his cousins Manfrey and Yourka—but, Stranger take him, he’d been unable to part with her. It was only to her detriment that he kept her from it, he knew.

“ Batlahat,” he said now, reaching out a hand to his ‘second firstborn’—his from start to finish, Bara and the others would tease him—and Elia’s tough little face crumbled as she threw herself at him with a whimpered  Ama . She snuffled against his neck, still slight and skinny with girlhood. While Ellaria combed her fingers through his hair he let his children pile on him. 

His brother would have done right by them, had he died in King's Landing, and kept them safe but a parent’s place was with their children. Ellaria had taught him that, and he would see her will done as much as he would Sansa’s. She would love these girls, and be a good example for all of them of a smart woman who used the skills of a lady against those who would harm her. Oberyn stroked Elia’s hair and smiled at Ellaria over her head. She was a good girl despite her temper and he knew he had no one else but himself to blame for it. 

“When do you think Sansa…?” Ellaria’s voice was soft, her hands stroking Loree’s curls. Though all four of Ellaria’s children had his eyes, hard and glinting, their faces had Ellaria's shape and her beautiful hair tumbled from each of their heads. They would all be heartbreaking and achingly lovely when they grew and he looked forward to the knights and squires whose eyes they’d blacken and the ladies and handmaidens they would perhaps giggle with and bed. Sansa, who would exist in a complicated place between mother, aunt, and elder sister for these four, would turn her hand towards teaching them the finer points of courtly games such as Nym and Enny practiced. 

“Doran will make sure she is seen here, and Daemon went with her,” Oberyn replied, closing his eyes and just basking in having his family around him. It was only getting bigger and bigger but he’d once jested to Doran that his family was there to look after Doran’s. As Doran's expanded so too would Oberyn's.  


“What are you going to name the new baby, Ysa?”Obella asked, her small hand petting Ellaria’s stomach. His love glanced at him with a jaunty smile and he nodded in concession to her wishes. He always had hopes but ultimately Ellaria chose the names the Gods would know her children by.  


“Your ama wants to name her Tamcen, after Prince Mors’ daughter with Nymeria—but I want to call her Sansa,” she said softly, “What do you think, my darlings?” Silence settled over them for a long moment before Loree piped up:

“Both!” Soon her sisters were joining in on the chorus, even Elia. 

“So we are to have Ellie, Bellie, Doree, Loree, and—Tamcen Sansa?” Ellaria named off each of the girls, her tone happy as they smiled when called on. It was Dorea who shook her head, her curls bouncing around her face in a whirl. 

“We’ll call her Sansi, for oranges!” Oberyn laughed and took Dorea’s hand and kissed her fingertips. Sansi indeed. It was good they would have a separate name for their stepmother and their sister, though he wondered what Sansa herself might think when she realized her name was taken from the Rhoynish word for orange blossom.  


* * *

 

Jon hoped he had not done ill to Sansa with his letters to her—he’d felt, though, that she would like to hear words from family given her new situation. If he’d been wrong that she was somehow made free by the Dornish then he hoped they would not hurt her overmuch for it. Maester Aemon had recently said that he’d spent years, an entire Summer, of his childhood in Dorne with his Martell cousins. A Prince of Dorne named Garin, the grandfather of Sansa’s new husband, had been Aemon’s chief playmate though the boy was several years younger than Aemon and his siblings. 

It had been a brief but pleasant respite to speak of childhood with the ancient maester—though now his duties here as Lord Commander prevented him from too much idle thinking. Mance and his army brought their own food, to an extent, and their own skills at getting more but everyone was eating through everyone else’s food—and Winter was descending ever more rapidly. He only dimly remembered the Winter of his childhood, how even Lady Catelyn had fussed over him to make sure he didn’t wander outside into the blizzards. But that had been at Winterfell, the glass gardens humid and steaming and the castle walls warm from the hot springs. This was the Wall and no such comforts were afforded them, and Lady Catelyn was dead—her thin fingers cold and blackened by death, no longer warm on cheeks fattened by childhood.

Her treatment of him during that Winter had possibly been the only tenderness she’d ever shown him, making sure he didn’t escape the castle and freeze to death out in the stables or otherwise. Those freezing years of Winter were certainly the only time he _remembered_ such attention. She had been an honorable but strange woman, he had long ago decided, most especially towards him. He sent a prayer up to the Gods to watch over her spirit and make sure she rested easily, following it up with a prayer that Sansa was in a position of safety that she hadn’t been in for years now. He prayed that she wasn’t too broken to enjoy that safety if indeed she was safe. 

 

* * *

 

 

“ Should I sit for this, Doran?”

Doran glanced between her and the chaise farther into the room and back to her face. She smiled a little and walked to set Jon’s letter on the chaise before returning back to help install him at his desk. Oberyn had said that his elder brother had once been the most feared fighter in all of Dorne until the gout had begun to eat at him too badly—and that he was sure that if called to it, Doran was still capable of feats those around him could not imagine of him now. She stole one last glance at the fish—fat and cheerful, with mouths that gaped open and closed like eternally, repeatedly surprised little old men. In the green-blue water the whites and oranges of their scales flashed as bright as any lady’s silk. 

“Your brother, he is twenty if I recall?” _Is Jon really twenty now?_ Sansa asked herself, _he must be though_.  Robb was just past of his own nameday of one and twenty and he’d been but a few months older than Jon. As she sat down she set the letter further from herself so she would not fidget with it while Doran waited for her acknowledgment—a simple, hesitant nod seemed to suffice. 

“Twenty two years ago Prince Rhaegar Targaryen disappeared with Lyanna Stark, your aunt. No one knew the why or way of it, not until the dust began to settle from Robert’s Rebellion—and your father, Lord Eddard, rode south to the Dornish Marches. Did Oberyn break your journey in Starktear?” Sansa flushed red and nodded. Oberyn had done more than break their journey in Starktear and she was fairly sure that her babe had been conceived there or perhaps in Kingsgrave. She liked to think it was in Starktear though, and she hoped that Doran’s words did not force her away from that notion. 

The faint smile on her goodbrother’s face, not so feral or mischievous as Oberyn’s but of a similar ken, indicated he followed her line of thinking and was happy for her for it. He had probably gotten into his own versions of trouble and tight situations as Oberyn had, of course not so notorious as Oberyn’s but few people could truly match Oberyn in anything scandalous. 

“There was a tower there, called the Tower of Joy apparently by my goodbrother. There he spent more than a year with her and when he left her he left three knights of his Kingsguard behind him. Now you are more familiar with the…shall we say zeal of the men of that Order and what do they swear above all to protect?” Sansa stared at Doran then, cold realization stealing through her faster than it probably ought. She remembered overheard arguments of Joffrey’s Kingsguard, who they ought to choose between—Cersei or Joffrey, and they’d always fallen on the side of Joffrey unless Cersei had somehow made them her creatures. 

“The blood of the king,” she said, her voice barely audible. Doran nodded, looking down at his hands for a long moment. Sansa trembled at what he hinted at—that her bastard brother who had survived some sort of huge battle at the Wall, if his letter’s presence was anything to go by, was not her brother at all. He was the last surviving member of the Targaryen family with any meaningful amount of Targaryen blood in him aside from the rumored Daenerys Stormborn and her dragons. 

“When your father rode into Sunspear twenty years ago he was insensible, desolate in his grief. With him he brought his sister’s body, wrapped in the bloody sheets of her birthing bed and in a makeshift box to shield her from the view of the smallfolk. In his arms wailed an infant who he only relinquished in order to give the child up to the wet nurse he’d found in Kingsgrave. He and the knight with him were in deep mourning—the only lift of self that I saw, in those first days, was when he managed to tell us that his sister had requested the burial rites of the Seven. My wife Mellario cared for your brother then, but only when she might steal him from Lord Eddard’s arms.” Sansa blinked away tears, knowing that her family had for centuries prided themselves on their northron rites and practices and it must have hurt Father to give up his only sister to the Silent Sisters. At the same time she appreciated that Doran referred to Jon as her brother. Bastard and until lately unwanted and unloved—but she’d been raised with him and he’d sat at the same reading and writing lessons as she had as a girl. 

It all explained so much—why Father refused to foster Jon out, and spoke no harsh word against Jon’s decision to join the Watch. _It was the only way he would be completely safe from those who would hurt him for his father's blood,_ she realized. Just as dangerous, ultimately, but of a consciously chosen danger instead of the brutal justice meted out by Robert Baratheon. 

“At my decision and request he was named Baelor Blackfyre by one of my cousins who’d become a Septon. He was anointed with the seven oils and Oberyn spoke the seven supplications over him for each of the seven faces of God. You visited the Sept of Fhoserrio did you not? In Sunspear?” Sansa jerked out a nod at the question. 

“Then you saw the Stranger? When the final prayer fell from my brother’s lips he turned to your father and handed the child to him—and we told Lord Eddard to give the boy a story and a name that would protect him, and we would consider the debt of honor paid for Rhaegar’s betrayal of Elia. Before the feet of the Stranger who looked so much like the babe’s father we felt it a fitting death of his Targaryen heritage, and when Lord Eddard left it was with Jon Snow in his arms—the bastard boy of a camp follower who died.”

“And if Jon had…had inherited his father’s coloring instead of Lyanna’s?”

“We would have kept him here, and found other ways to make him safe. It is what Elia would have wanted, she adored her children’s silvery hair and wrote to us often of her two slips of moonlight. So now you know the truth of it—and it must never come to light, goodsister. It has been the secret of a lifetime, knowing that the Starks raised a Blackfyre up as a Snow.”

Sansa nodded, all words stolen from her as she tried to reconcile everything she had just learned with everything she’d known. Her bastard brother—still a bastard, but one who might legitimately claim himself king given enough support. For Jon’s sake she hoped to keep this secret from him unless asked otherwise by Doran or Oberyn, because it would only cause him pain or despair.  

There was also a lingering worry that he might actually try to become king and she had seen too many bad kings—and too many dead kings on top of that. He was some of the last of her family, the last of those she might trust from her life before being imprisoned by the Crown, and she would have him live on if nothing else. Too many Starks had died for him to so recklessly gamble with his own survival.  


“I will do my best to keep this secret, Doran,” she said, holding onto her sigil necklace with one hand as she said it—almost like a vow to her Martell goodfamily and their attentiveness of years ago. Though she did now have a question, “If—If Oberyn did all that for my brother why did he not tell me?” Doran nodded stiffly in acknowledgment of her question, looking down at his hands for a long moment before turning his gaze back towards her. 

“He felt he needed to confer with me in person and he does not fully trust the halls of Sunspear with such sensitive knowledge. This place, where he himself was born and where half of his children were born, feels safer to him. If he and I were to burden you with this knowledge, he wanted you to be in a safe place to hear it.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what did you think about Oberyn & Ellaria's nicknames for their kids? What about Jon and his general cat-getting-rained-on life? And Sansa and Doran? Let me know!
> 
> Thank you all for reading, by the way!


	47. Daemon, Oberyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daemon Sand! Oberyn and babies and Sansa meets the littlest Sand Snakes!

Oberyn’s wife was radiant as she walked with him towards the wing of rooms that Oberyn and his family took up. Daemon had seen few redheads, fewer still that looked as though their hair had been dipped in blood as this young woman’s did, and weeks after first meeting her he still admired her beauty. There was a quiet dignity in her that turned heads as well, and he remembered seeing Prince Doran when he’d been just a boy and brought to Sunspear for the first time. The Ruling Prince had been stately and handsome, his tiny wife glowing and beautiful by his side when at court or in leisure, and it had been a great treat to watch Prince Doran and Prince Oberyn spar with one another in the misty dawns of the Dornish Winter. His father Lord Ryon had felt it important for him to see the two Martells, that even at the highest place in Dornish society there were things such as blood and sweat and grief-madness.

Princess Sansa held a letter in her hands, unopened and still tightly rolled from its journey on a raven’s leg. If Daemon wasn’t mistaken it bore the seal of the Watch and he wondered why such a lady might have occasion to commune with the frozen bastards and cutthroats of the Wall. She’d not had the letter when he’d escorted her and Prince Doran to the Prince’s solar, and Daemon was forced to assume she’d been given it by the Prince. 

“Is Princess Myrcella here at the Water Gardens? Or does she reside with one of the bannermen?” Sansa paused, waiting for him to come abreast of her before she continued walking. Daemon was incredibly glad, glancing down at Oberyn’s wife, that he’d been asked to become her sworn sword. As Oberyn and his elder brother began to put their plans into actual motion good knights would begin to be called up in service not only to the Martells but to the other great Houses of Dorne—someone would have asked for Daemon’s assistance sooner or later. Given his skills he would have been asked to look after Princess Arianne or Prince Quentyn. He knew those two—and bedded Arianne—but he did not know Princess Sansa. She was incredibly interesting and he hoped to become her friend someday.

“I believe she is here, last I heard, Princess, with her retinue and her kingsguard. Ser Arys, I think.” She nodded, her arms tucked just at her waist, her elbows behind her like tiny wings, while her hands folded delicately around the letter Prince Doran had given her. Not for the first time Daemon thought she looked like a princess from a ballad or a story. She walked confidently, managing to make him feel the one being led rather than the other way around, and if not for the skin of her back no one would ever suspect the abuses she’d lived through. 

Daemon himself bore several scars from his training as a knight—Oberyn’s daughter Obara had trained alongside him for much of his youth after Prince Doran had sent him to Oberyn’s household as a squire. Where Oberyn was fair in his teaching—and when challenging for skill the Prince did not give more than the student might possibly take—Obara learned incredibly fast and had little urge to self-edit when sparring. The scars she’d given him had been earned though. Marks left when he’d forgotten a block or read the form wrong or when he’d just been paying less attention and heed than he ought to. Princess Sansa did not live as a martyr, her scars never on display for the value of their shock, but neither did she make an effort to hide them. 

“After you leave me with my family will you seek out her handmaiden and ask if she is to attend supper tonight?”  _My family,_ she’d said though she’d never met Ellaria’s daughters and Ellaria had no legal claim in Princess Sansa’s household. Before Daemon had gone to the Sept of Fhoserrio for his vigil Oberyn had told him that if he wanted to be a knight he would make vows to bring good to the world—and that such vows meant nothing if he did not carry through with them in every aspect of his life. In contrast the vows of marriage were simple—I am hers, she is mine—and it seemed that Princess Sansa understood that Oberyn was not only a man. Oberyn Martell was a father, a lover, and a beloved Prince of his people. This woman, tall but slight and willowy with youth, willingly claimed a stake in everything that made Oberyn who he was. 

She would level mountains if only someone told her her husband had done it once upon a time and thought it a worthy undertaking. The idea sent a bit of terror into his blood, if he was honest, because Oberyn had done a great number of monumental things in his life.

“Of course, Princess. And should Princess Myrcella wish to see you before supper?” The young woman shook her head in a no, her hair shimmering in the multicolored lights of Daenerys’ Passage. 

“There is plenty of time to see her at supper or even tomorrow, I think, Ser Daemon. Tell her I am weary and would rest for that is certainly the truth. I think that,” a certain slyness entered her tone and Daemon knew there was no better wife Oberyn might have had outside of Ellaria than this one, “we ought to perhaps spare her the details of that rest. She is yet a little young to be baldly told of such things, do you not agree?” Daemon snorted and nodded, not trusting his voice at the moment. 

Oberyn’s rooms were well guarded—the Septas and handmaidens all Dornish warrior women expressly trained in defending the Martell family, and though the servants here were unarmed they were no less deadly for it. It was said that there was no one in the Seven Kingdoms that Tywin Lannister wanted dead more than anyone bearing Martell blood, and rumor or myth it might be the ruling family did not take such talk lightly. Daemon occasionally wondered, when running in these halls with Oberyn—half clothed and laughing like a pair of madmen as they raced—if Tywin Lannister’s home was accordingly girded against the hatred, pure and simple, of the Martell brothers. 

Knocking on Oberyn and Ellaria’s door, Daemon stepped back a few feet to allow his companion to stand in the doorway. Only hushed voices could be heard from within the room. 

“Prince Oberyn’s girls speak mostly Dornish Valyrian, Princess, though Elia has taken to speaking only Andaii recently I’ve heard from Princess Arianne.” The young woman at his side nodded distractedly, turning the letter she carried over and over in a nervous fidget. 

When Oberyn finally appeared Daemon stepped back again to give them space, quieting his momentary jealousy as his lover swept Princess Sansa into a tight embrace. Oberyn had flirted with him relentlessly all day, he had little room to be jealous of the man’s wife. _Especially since she is kind to me, even though she is not Dornish and would know little reason to be._

“Ser Daemon will you wait a moment? After I introduce Sansa to my girls I would have a private word with you.” There was no hint of a flirt in Oberyn’s face and Daemon gave a nod and a short bow as the man opened the door once more.

* * *

 

Fall in Dorne was a rare treat, and Fall in the Water Gardens was one of his favorite seasons as the years turned from Summer to Winter. The days were warm and dry—neither hot nor damp with chill—and his solar here in his childhood home overlooked one of the grand pools of fresh water that this palace was so famed for. As a child he had learned to swim in this pool, his uncle Lewyn teaching him to catch and gently release the fat princefish with his bare hands as they wiggled and darted among the lilies and reeds. Their bright orange and white scales and their whiskers had fascinated him to such an extent that his brother and sister had called him Prince Princefish in the year before he’d been sent to foster in Sandstone. Whenever his mind wandered, later, Elia would use the name against him to bring him back to the present. Doran had stopped using it after her death, though, and it was only a bittersweet memory now.

As they waited for Sansa to finish her meeting with Doran he silently plotted to teach her how to swim. He was sure she’d never learned and it was a treat to teach her new things, she learned incredibly quick. She now only rarely asked him to translate for her when listening to Dornish Valyrian—and though she used few Rhoynish words when speaking it herself she was growing more used to the flow of the language. 

“Girls, I don’t know if Septa Recelle told you already but Ysa and I have something to tell you. Our family is going to get a little bigger, and we need you to be good.”

“But you _and_ Septa Recelle already told us we are getting a sister!” Obella said, her voice a sing-song as she tried to braid Ellaria’s hair. Oberyn twitched a smile at her, breaking into a grin as he watched her pet the braids out of her mother’s hair in order to start again. 

“It’s something else, something we didn’t want Septa Recelle to tell you about, my darlings. Do you remember what you wanted for your last nameday, Doree?” Ellaria said as she saw Oberyn searching for words. Not for the first time Oberyn reminded himself that without Ellaria his life would still be bereft of love and affection. His relationship with Doran would never have solidified into anything truly meaningful because to interact with his elder brother properly he had to have something to live for—and after his sister Elia’s death he’d legitimately thought he had nothing to live for.

“Another Ysa, for when you have to visit Lord Harmon!” If Oberyn was a betting man, and in honesty he _was_ a betting man, he would put good silver down that Doree would grow up as wayward as himself. She had a certain ease with accepting and letting go of the lovers her parents took that her sisters save for Sarella lacked. When he or Ellaria asked their lover to come or go, Doree bore no ill will either way.

“And what kind of mother would you have, if you had a second?” This started a chorus of virtues and vices that his girls expected of a woman who might be a mothering figure in their lives other than Ellaria or their Septa. There was a a moment though when he glanced at Elia and Obella and knew that they’d realized what this conversation was really about—and that it worried them, as it had worried their elder sisters Nym and Enny. Oberyn kissed the pads of his middle and pointer fingers and dotted each of their foreheads as a silent acknowledgment that he saw their cares. Family, in Dorne, was more than blood. It was partnership, trust, and empathy too.

“So it wouldn’t upset you too much if Ama brought his wife to live here with us?” Ellaria’s question was sly, working on an assumption that all of the girls had already all realized Oberyn had gotten married. It was the best way to slip things by them—from foreign dishes to writing exercises to announcements of short trips around Dorne that would leave the girls behind. 

Elia reached for his hand, surprising him, before she asked a soft question of her own. 

“She won’t send us away, will she?”

“No, she’s looked forward to meeting all of you for too long,” he replied, “she misses having a big family and she’s told us that she hopes you’ll let her be part of yours.” He left the choice in his children’s hands—for the choices of children cut to the bone of what their parents had taught them, and there was an old worry in Oberyn that he wasn’t a man fit to be anyone’s father. Then Loree, just months shy of her fifth nameday, piped up:

“Will she braid my hair and not pull it like Septa Recelle does?” Oberyn laughed, loud and happy, at her words and shook his head. 

“I am sure she will braid your hair however you wish if you ask, sweet girl,” he said. Having never had Sansa braid his hair he made no promises on her ability to avoid pulling it though. A moment later a knock on the door had everyone’s eyes turning towards the doorway. It was of the jaunty pattern that Daemon Sand preferred to use and though he hadn’t told the girls that Sansa would be accompanied by Daemon there was anticipation in the air. 

“Remember to be good, both your Ama and I hold this lady very dear,” Ellaria said as she rose from the pile they’d curled up into. As she smoothed out wrinkles from the dresses of the girls Oberyn crossed to the doorway, waiting until Ellaria nodded to him before opening it to get Sansa. His only hope was that Doran hadn’t made her cry too harshly somehow. His little wife and his elder brother had similarly heavy hearts and hard news to share with one another. 

There was a tightness around Sansa’s eyes that spoke of her tears, but her cheeks were dry and her lips weren’t bitten to redness—whatever she’d wept over did not still trouble her, and she curled her head under his chin with easy trust when he opened his arms to her. Daemon stood behind her, his eyes watchful and a little hungry. Looking after Sansa’s safety had put some distance between them and Oberyn was glad it wasn’t yet an impassable distance. He wasn’t yet ready to set Daemon’s affections aside, he thought to himself as he asked the man to wait outside of the room. 

“Girls, meet Sansa. She and I were married in King’s Landing—she is proof that not everything outside of Dorne is awful or rotten, even though Ser Daemon and Ser Deziel have always told you so. Sansa,” he did not push her towards his family, letting her choose to walk towards them or not, “these are my daughters with Ellaria—Elia, who has just turned eleven and knows almost as much as I do about horses. She would love to meet your Dawn. Then we have Obella, who is ten and the favorite of her grandfather, Dorea, six years old and as much of a terror as I was as a child, and Loreza, four years old and I think very much interested in your braiding skills.”

“I’m five!”Oberyn heaved a feigned sigh of frustration but replied to her with a smile in his voice:

“Loree you are four years and eight months of age—you are _nearly_ five.” His daughter scowled at him in a manner that he imagined he himself had once upon a time inflicted on his poor father Olyvar and mumbled a short, " _oh_." Sansa surpised him then by gracefully sinking to her knees to meet the girls’ eyes on the level. 

“You are all as lovely as your Ama and Ysa have said you were,” she said, abandoning the Andaii that she normally chose to use even in private. Whatever reluctance there was on either side it was melted by this, and it was brash Doree who beat her sisters in running across the room to fling her arms around Sansa’s neck—declaring for the whole family to hear that now they  _had_ t o call their unborn sister Sansi, because otherwise Ama’s wife would get confused.

Months ago in King’s Landing he had often seen that Sansa became overwhelmed when surrounded by people—especially those who demanded close quarter with her, either by design or accident—but now watched her let his daughters take her hands and put smacking kisses on her fingertips and knuckles. Loree had even wormed her way under one of Sansa’s elbows, wrapping her own arms around Sansa’s waist like a limpet. 

Blowing a kiss to Ellaria and giving Sansa’s shoulder a quick squeeze, Oberyn ducked out of the room to speak with Daemon. There was little about their situation that Ellaria or Sansa would be unable to explain, and he needed to arrange a schedule and retinue of sorts for his wife that would allow her sworn sword to have a few moments of his own once in a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who read this chapter, let me know what you thought!


	48. Myrcella, Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long time between updates! I'm not 100% pleased with this chapter but it is a gateway for the real meat of the story to get going. So that being said I hope you really enjoy it!

Myrcella was surprised when she entered the dining room for supper, but not because of the familiar face from King’s Landing awaiting her. She’d been told of Sansa’s arrival—and the other girl’s marriage to Prince Oberyn. In truth she did not think it too strange, though the Prince had been nothing other than fatherly towards Myrcella herself, even giving her a nickname in accordance with his own children and fitting her into their lineup as though she was one of his numerous bastards. Her mother the Queen would have been scandalized but Myrcella, who had been fearful of Dorne before arriving here, adored being part of a family that actually appeared to love one another. So when Prince Oberyn would call them for supper on the nights he spent in the Water Gardens, leaning over the terrace balcony to see where they all splashed and shrieked in the pool below, _Cellee, Ellee, Bellee, Dor_ ee,  _Loree,_ s he never batted an eyelash. It was great fun to reach up to him and Ellaria and be lifted up onto the balcony rather than walk all the way around, shivering in the twilight. 

Prince Oberyn always had a roaring fire going for them to dry themselves by, and threw soft drying cloths at each of them before leaving them with Ellaria to get dressed properly.

She had hardly known her father, had feared her mother and eldest brother, and been kept far from Tommen by maesters and servants. Prince Oberyn and his bastard daughters and almost-wife were open with her and allowed her to belong here. Then there was Prince Trystane, a boy just a year older than her and as sweet and attentive as any knight in a song. Mother had said that marrying her off to him, to Dorne, was an insult to both her father’s family and to the Lannister family—but Uncle Tyrion had been adamant and had won. She was quite sure that few people in this world were ultimately unable to be swayed by her dwarf uncle. 

No, Myrcella was surprised when she entered the dining room because the Sansa Stark who stood to hug her was not the one that she had last seen on the morning of her voyage to Dorne. That girl had been stoic and pale, her hair and face a combination of severity and beauty, and there had been no hope to rid herself of Myrcella’s eldest brother Joffrey. Sansa Stark of this evening was a woman grown, her hair fashionably woven with Dornish ornaments and her smile quiet and warm as she opened her arms to Myrcella. There was something terribly adult in her now, in a way that had only barely begun to show back in King’s Landing. 

“I’m told by my goodbrother, Doran, that you’re more Oberyn’s daughter than niece, Princess Myrcella,” Sansa said, her voice pleasant and perfect as it had always—always—been. Myrcella remembered envying the elder girl for her graces, even as Mother would tear down certain things Sansa did not know about court life. As though the girl was too stupid to learn those nuances and was too unimportant to be taught them. 

The first thing that her Dornish companions here at the Water Gardens had begun teaching her, without question and without protest, were the differences between High Valyrian and Dornish Valyrian and how to swim. Mother had, despite Father’s weak protestations, refused to allow any of them to learn to swim—not even when Joffrey set fire to the figures work set to him by Grandmaester Pycelle did she waver. 

“He has certainly been very welcoming, Princess Sansa,” she replied, with a smile, holding the other girl at arm’s length to look at her better. The dark circles beneath Sansa’s eyes were no longer there, and there was color in her cheeks and lips as there hadn’t been a year ago. 

“I hope not  too welcoming,” Sansa said with a feigned look of suspicion directed at Prince Oberyn who pouted and muttered something about being innocent of all charges levied against him. They laughed and let him pull out their seats, smiling at each other across the table. 

“I like you much better as my aunt here than…how it was before.” She’d heard a little, in rumors, over the last several weeks of how Sansa had come to marry Prince Oberyn—her marriage to Uncle Tyrion being broken by Grandfather. Though it had relieved her, deep in her heart, to hear that the gentle redhead from the North was no longer promised to Joff it had been a little alarming to hear of a marriage to Uncle Tyrion. 

Ironically it had caused her, months and months ago, to try imagining being told to marry Prince Oberyn—or Lord Manfrey—instead of Prince Trystane. The man in question near middle age rather than the man just out of boyhood. 

Such things were not brought up at this table though—instead Prince Oberyn asked her how she’d fared in his absence, if his nephew had been good to her and to not lie for the boy’s sake. Through it all Myrcella watched the way Sansa ate her food. It had been the most striking thing she remembered about her almost-goodsister, former-and-soon-to-be-aunt: Sansa had picked at her food and eaten mechanically and obediently. It did not matter what Mother ordered to the table, if it had been put before the girl she had eaten it without complaint. 

Even vile things such as eels or mussels had not been balked at. 

Now Sansa smiled as she ate, the spice of the Dornish food bringing bright spots of red to her cheeks and tears to her eyes that she dashed with an absent, easy hand—and a laugh if her husband or Ellaria teased her for them. 

“Your uncle, Lord Tyrion, is soon to come to Dorne, Princess Myrcella,” Prince Oberyn said once the last dishes had been cleared in preparation for a dessert to be served. A handmaiden filled Sansa’s wineglass with losennta that steamed in the coolness of the evening air, and Myrcella watched that steam twist and curl for a moment. She’d grown up digesting words into true meanings but Prince Oberyn spoke his with such understated truth in them that it was difficult to see his motives. 

“To speak with Prince Doran, here in the palace?” Prince Oberyn inclined his head for a moment, acknowledging her cleverness in seeing even this far into this news. 

“He thinks, at least. I will not allow Lord Tyrion to come here if I can help it and my brother knows this. If you wish to see him I will arrange a personal escort for you to Sunspear—only ask, Princess, and it will be done,” he said, efficiently cutting his food. The sound of silver utensils grating on porcelain plates was all the sound in the room after his words settled in the air. 

Finally there was a hint of the old stoic Sansa as the silence lingered past what was comfortable. Myrcella saw the way she stilled and made herself nearly invisible by it—a trick often used at court when Joff’s eye had been turned elsewhere, and it had been very effective. Seeing this return of days long gone made Myrcella for the first time glad that her brother had died at his own wedding. 

Unlike Father who had had a good heart but a soft head, Joff had had no heart and a softer head. He had been a vicious brute, and would have long ago been sent to the Wall or disinherited if he’d been anyone but the son of the king.  _The Butcher King,_ the Dornish called her father, and they’d called Joff  _the little butcher._ Prince Trystane, just four and ten, swiftly dealt with those who spoke those epithets in her hearing—though Myrcella had never asked him to. She knew her family’s history well enough, and she wasn’t like Mother who couldn’t bear to hear ill-things spoken of her family.

In the silence that stretched into deeply uncomfortable territory, Myrcella found her voice—and asked a question that had plagued her since she’d been told of Sansa’s arrival at Sunspear. 

“Did Uncle Tyrion hurt Princess Sansa?”

Everyone, even little Loree, looked at her and then at Sansa and Prince Oberyn. The two stared at one another, some silent conversation going on that all but Ellaria were excluded from and finally Sansa gave the tiniest of nods to her husband. It was the first time Myrcella could remember thinking that Prince Oberyn looked the least bit aged—the silver dotting his temples seeming to salt his dark hair all the more, the laugh lines at his cheeks and eyes seeming akin to those Prince Doran wore so somberly, and his frown aged his demeanor from seven and thirty to three and seventy. 

“Your uncle laid no hand on Sansa, Princess, it was his name that wounded her most. And,” a long pause as Prince Oberyn looked at her, measuring her, “his kindness in abstaining from his rights brought her only danger and fear. Tyene has taken time to educate you about the privileges granted between husband and wife, I hope?”

Myrcella pressed her lips together and nodded. 

“Your uncle has never been other than courteous and good to me, Princess Myrcella. Oberyn may reconsid—” Sansa said, her voice conciliatory and sweet, but Oberyn dropped his fork and knife loudly on his plate and flattened his palms on the table. His dark eyes were fixed on his plate, though, not staring anyone down as he spoke.

" _No_ , Sansa. Lord Tyrion Lannister may eat and drink to his heart’s contentment in the great hall of the palace—visit every sighing house in Sunspear until he passes out from it and more but he will  not come here.” Myrcella bit the inside of her cheek, remembering the few times that her father had decided to dine with his family. Sansa was frozen, her fork suspended a few inches above her plate—just as Mother’s would during Father’s complaints and anger.

She had hoped that Sansa had escaped all that, but this—

“I am sorry,” Prince Oberyn said, running his hands over his face as the tension bled out of his shoulders, “I am sorry Sansa. I—” he paused for a long moment, “my family resides here. They are  safe here, and unless my brother explicitly orders me to allow a Lannister in these halls I will  not allow even the  good Lannister here. If you can, please forgive me my love,” he finished, finally looking up at Sansa. This differed from the narrative Myrcella had grown up with—Father had never apologized to Mother for his words, at least before Joff, Tomm, and herself. 

“May we speak of this later, Prince Oberyn?” Prince Oberyn took a shaking breath at Sansa’s words and nodded, picking up his silverware again and returning to their meal. Myrcella continued to eat, tiny elegant bites that Mother would have been proud of, and knew what Sansa’s mechanical eating back in King’s Landing had felt like for the rich food had taken on an ashy quality.

* * *

 

_ If you can.  _

He had scared her, the harsh clatter of silver on porcelain and the slam of his hands on the table. This was the man the Ellaria had tried to tell her of over the last several months—that she should not fear a blow from him, but that his words would boom and growl in the midst of his anger. This Oberyn Martell was the one who Lord Tywin had feared enough to hand her over to the Dornish—this was the one who had demanded a distinctly northron punishment for those who had murdered his family members. 

This was the Oberyn Martell she could not bring herself to tell of her tortured years in King’s Landing—the one only Doran and Ellaria might control or rein in when he knew the full extent of what had been done to her. Sansa knew how to conduct herself around a man as fiercely angry as he’d shown evidence of—she’d learned at the hands of Joffrey and his Kingsguard how to deflect and diffuse—but this also meant she feared having to do so.

Yet, as she walked out to the gardens with Nymeria and Tyene, she mused on his plea for forgiveness. _I_ _f you can._ He had not demanded it from her, nor did he try to twist the argument’s blame away from himself. She’d wounded him by calling him by his title—but that hurt was well concealed from her when he acquiesced to letting his elder girls show her parts of the gardens that were lit by torchlight still, and his hand had been warm between her two as she held it briefly before turning away from him. 

“Father did not mean—” 

“Nymeria,” Sansa made sure to keep her voice as sweet as possible as she interrupted, “your father will explain himself  _himself,_ I am glad you stand by him,” the Dornish tradition of judging a family by their solidarity with one another was useful now to illustrate the current situation, “but he does not need excuses made for his behavior, nor do I think he wants them made. What I cannot grasp is why Lord Tyrion cannot come to visit this place—even by himself, so he might see his niece in her home.”

The twilight, descending down to darkness and adding a distinct chill to the air, lent an ethereal blue to Tyene’s hair while Nymeria’s appearance went from suggestive to sultry in the change of light. Sansa, dressed in a turquoise linen gown lined with orange silk, was glad that the coming night muted the brightness of her clothing—after that dinner she did not feel like drawing attention to herself. 

“There are certain things about the Water Gardens, Sansa, that are secrets of the Martell family,” Tyene began, “and Father is wary because of you and Ellaria, wanting to keep both of you safe. He thinks to keep harm from you. Lord Tyrion is the first formal emissary of the King in a generation to actually visit Dorne, and the last time one did was not a happy visit for Father or Uncle,” the blonde girl said, her arm loosely linked with Sansa’s as they walked in a rough circle back towards Oberyn’s wing of the palace. 

She’d been here less than a day and what had been a potentially freeing place now darkened for her. Jon was the bastard of a Targaryen prince, she would confront Ser Arys about their mutual time in King’s Landing, and the tightly controlled darkness in Oberyn had shown itself, even if only briefly. 

“I will let you know tomorrow how our conversation goes,” she said softly, letting the other girls kiss her fingertips as they stopped outside of Oberyn’s rooms. They were older than her, and each trained fighters, but there was something about each of them that she envied—a certain innocence like Margaery had had. Coy and understanding and still unseeing of the dark corners in the world. She missed seeing things in that light. 

Somehow, as she closed the door behind her, she’d expected some scene reminiscent of Tyrion—a man made bitter by the lateness of the evening, drunk in the dark. Such had been the ending of many evenings during her short marriage to the dwarf—he would say something that made her flee and when she was compelled to return she found him wallowing in guilt. Too full of wine to even string together a few sentences other than a lame apology that shifted the blame onto her.  _That he was sorry if I had possibly taken offense,_ Sansa thought as she stepped further into the solar, _and never thinking that the fault lay with him instead of me._

He’d tried to comfort her the day she’d met Oberyn—demanding she let him into her pain somehow and failing to understand that she would never be able to speak openly to him. Oberyn never pushed her for more than she was willing to give. Was it then wrong to push him to give Myrcella more than he was willing to give?

“Sansa?”

Oberyn was sitting at his desk and Sansa turned to face him there. Ellaria and the little girls were nowhere to be seen and she was glad of this. Oberyn was neither drunk nor sour faced and that gave her hope as she walked towards him. In fact there was a great deal of apprehension in his eyes. 

She bit down on an apology for bringing him to cause such a scene at dinner. It was perfectly reasonable to allow a child to see family, especially if that child was as sweet and good as Myrcella—and if the family in question was what Oberyn had called ‘the good Lannister,’ then it was even more reasonable. If her husband and goodbrother planned on leading the Crown on a merry chase much longer they must keep all reports from Myrcella favorable.

Being deprived of her dearest uncle was certainly not favorable—exploding about it at supper even less. 

“My love—” he murmured when she got close, reaching out a hand for her to take. 

“My _love,_ will you explain to me your reasons?” she said, interrupting what was probably a thoughtful apology, “I won’t question you any further, but Oberyn this cannot be so petty as the blood that runs through Tyrion Lannister’s veins.” She let him pull her closer, sitting her on his desk, and listened attentively as Oberyn shared his many fears about letting a Lannister—however harmless looking—into his beloved Water Gardens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am falling asleep at the keyboard everyone, so please accept my apologies for not responding to each comment tonight! I will get to them tomorrow if I can!! I dearly love all of you for your support and I hope you had a great Christmas!
> 
> Let me know what you thought of this chapter too, feedback is amazing and spiffy and I love all of it :D


	49. Tyrion, Arianne, Dany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness in updating, spent the holidays with friends and didn't have much time to write or update but here is something!! Please enjoy!

Tyrion decided, as the party rode towards Godsgrace, that he rather liked sand horses. They were, if not even tempered, understandably tempered and their slightness made him feel a little less ridiculous than the great chargers and war horses of the Westerlands had. 

His father had told him to arrive in Sunspear with as much dignity as he could muster, and so when the time had come to choose the manner of travel he’d spared little expense. The party was outfitted in Dornish riding cloaks in the Baratheon griefcolor, sporting the grieving rose of Highgarden now that Tommen and Margaery had been wed. 

Bronn’s Sweet Lollys was given a carriage as not even Bronn was able to convince her to mount horse. It was a respectable choice, though, as her and her infant each had their attendants to outfit and look to. 

They’d been to say the least detained at the Tor—the Jordayne ladies claiming that the roads along the coast would be impassable from mud and they must go by way of Godsgrace if not even Vaith. This being said, of course the Vaiths and Allyrions each had to be queried for their ability to play host to the King’s emissary. 

It had been more than a sennight before Lord Ryon Allyrion’s wife Lady Ynys had sent a letter expressing her delight in hosting the King’s own uncle. Then had been another week for a carriage to arrive from the wheelwright’s—it had been done up in impractical city wheels and the purple and green colors of a Braavosi lord who had played court to Lady Jordayne’s daughter. Tyrion, watching the hulking black, yellow, gold, and green monstrosity trundle ahead of him, thought the repainting and change of wheels worth every penny. 

The Dornish reminded him a bit of the Tyrells—but where Lady Olenna played with claws out these dark countenanced people tucked those claws away. He rather preferred the bluntness of Lady Olenna to the feeling of cat-and-mouse. Varys had told him, when he’d been acting Hand, that Dorne’s sworn Houses and who’s-who were all to a fault banded with House Martell. They had their own internal squabbles, the spymaster had gone on to say, but it was a point of pride among most noble Houses to not involve anyone in the rest of Westeros. Even House Yronwood, easily the second most powerful in Dorne, would not deal with Stormlanders or Reachmen when making plays against the Martells. 

It stemmed from Robert’s Rebellion, Tyrion knew, but he’d been genuinely suprised. Somehow he’d thought Varys to be some strange god of knowledge—and moreover the acquisition of it. That Varys knew more about the politics beyond the Wall or among the Dothraki than in Dorne was alarming to say the least. 

_ They hate being even loosely attached to the realm, and where the madness of the Rhoynar is stronger they speak and think of Prince Doran as the Prince-King of Dorne and the Baratheons as kings of six kingdoms only _ _,_ Varys told him softly before seeing him off to his voyage South. 

The Dornish autumn was unusually cool they were told and the long rains were only beginning to fall with greater regularity further south. It was with a feigned kind of concern that the Allyrions greeted them on one such wet day. Godsgrace fairly steamed, though, as the kilns never ceased to fire and burn. The best porcelain and ceramics came from this small town, and even in the week he’d spent in Braavos he’d dined on graceware. It had been said, in books he’d read as a child, that the artisans of Godsgrace used techniques brought them by the Rhoynar—and that, just as Valyrian steel had been lost to the ages for the most part, there was nowhere else you could get plates so thin save for Lorathi gilded steel. 

House Allyrion had been missing a representative in the large party brought by Prince Oberyn and, as Lord Ryon and Lady Ynys offered them the salt and bread of Guest Right, Tyrion wondered if these people might not be so impenetrable as their fellows were rumored to be. 

Supper was an extravagant affair—the pages and serving girls wearing brightly dyed linen and silk, appearing nearly as sumptuous as their Lord and Lady. Merchants of Myr and Lys sat in the hall, their eyes amused as Tyrion was seated next to Lady Ynys. She was a plain lady, but of fine temper and it was interesting to see her jape about her husband and his affectionate winks to their servants. Where the Jordaynes had been coy, the Allyrions were loud and irreverent. Tyrion was glad of their mirth—he had the blood of Tywin Lannister in him and they still treated with him in kind merriment. 

His smug satisfaction that they could be made allies of the Crown was distinctly punctured, though, when Lady Ynys quipped that she’d like to see Bronn spar a few bouts with “Ser Daemon.” Lord Ryon had enthusiastically agreed, saying that Ser Daemon was one of the best swords in Dorne if not Westeros. Tyrion had smiled thinly through his confusion and asked who this Ser Daemon was. 

“Oh, my lord husband’s bastard boy. He squired for Prince Oberyn as a youth, and in his last letter he informed us that he’s been made the sworn sword of Princess Sansa,” Lady Ynys said, a tic of coyness twitching at her mouth before she smoothed it away with a sip of wine. 

“So he is in Sunspear, I gather,” Bronn said as he let a page fill his own goblet once more with the strange spiced wine the Dornish seemed to prefer above all else. Tyrion did admit that it warmed like no other when he was chilled from the rain. Which was often. 

“Or wherever Prince Oberyn has settled his family for the beginning of Winter,” Lord Ryon replied, “they might have returned to the Hellholt to stay with Lord Uller. My son has never been good at regular correspondence—not since we sent him Sunspear as a child.”

“Still,” Lady Ynys piped up, “we say prayers for him and he for us. He’s a good boy, despite his father.” She spoke with a happy smile on her lips, and Tyrion tried his best to smile in return, knowing that their bluster so far was as calculated as the smirks and solicitousness of the Jordaynes. Given the lingering grin on the lips of Lady Ynys and her two daughters his own smile was tepid at best. 

Despite their words that their stay would be short somehow the Allyrions kept the party for nearly a week before allowing them on their way finally to Sunspear. The roads worsened by the day and the Allyrions fretted that Lord and Lady Stokeworth _might_ be forced to remain behind if the carriage became mired. Tyrion had had a private but serious word with Bronn that that was  _ not _ to happen and to post guards around the carriage to prevent tampering. They would  _ walk _ to Sunspear before they  _ ever _ allowed the Allyrions to detain them longer. 

When, a fortnight of miserable road later, they arrived at Planky Town Tyrion had relented and put them up in an inn for the night. The rain was worse than any heat might have been and Tyrion muttered to the dead spirits of Jon Arryn and Ned Stark that they might have thought to die during high Summer—not on the advent of autumn as they had. It was damned selfish, he decided. 

A courier arrived the next day from Sunspear, a letter with the Martell seal in her hands and Tyrion was glad he did not have to identify himself. “Lannister looking dwarf,” was enough for people to know him on sight. 

The missive, signed by the castellan Lord Manfrey Martell, stated that rooms for the party were being prepared and they should arrive tomorrow morning if it please them—and of course, if this was a  _ hardship of any kind _ then House Martell would of course compensate the Crown well. Suddenly the dallying in the Tor and Godsgrace made sense. Tyrion was many things, but dimwitted in the realm of politics was not one of them. 

It had all been stalling, plain and simple, and on direct orders from House Martell.

* * *

 

She paced her solar—technically her father’s but more her own and her uncle’s in recent years—and questioned Lord Manfrey about the King’s emissary in Planky Town. Manfrey was her father’s cousin by way of a shared great grandfather in Prince Maron Martell—the Prince who Married, it was japed of in taverns. Of the man’s five children three sat as Lord or Lady of Sunspear and Manfrey descended from one of the two who hadn’t. 

Arianne’s father descended from the third of that family to sit in the spearchair, Prince Garin, who married his brother’s widow. Many had thought them cursed, for their marriage went ten years without children—and Garin nearly causing a civil war in Dorne when he began making plans to give Nymeros Shabanohat to his young niece, a bastard daughter of his sister thought to be fathered by Prince Aemon Targaryen before the maester had gone to the Wall. It was less the girl’s parentage that worried Dorne and more that by investing her as Ruling Princess of Dorne, and arming her claim with the sword of Nymeria, Prince Garin skipped his next eldest brother in favor of his youngest sibling’s youngest child. 

The Dornish inheritance laws did not countenance it and all of Dorne had breathed a sigh of relief when Princess Loreza, Arianne’s grandmother, was born strong and healthy. 

Lord Manfrey’s branch of the family, descended from that legitimized bastard girl, had been kept close though through the years. They’d been the castellans of Sunspear for as long as anyone could recall. They were intimate, but not too intimate, with the ruling family and always had been.

So, as her cousin spoke of the number—modest—and appointment of the party—less modest, but still formal—Arianne wished for her uncle or father. It was of course tempting to let them rule entirely until her father’s death but even she knew this to be unwise. 

No, it was better she make use of their cunning and patience and rule herself for some years with their help before being released upon the world as some new Nymeria. 

“Know they ought of my uncle’s doings and that of his family?”

“My daughter says they made a few inquiries as to how Princess Sansa faired and how she liked Dorne so far,” Manfrey replied, “and Vaenna shared with them the news that Princess Sansa glows with the Prince’s child in her, and that laughter is abundant in her life. I hope we did not misread Prince Oberyn’s intentions?” Arianne smiled widely, kissing her cousin’s cheek as she walked by him to her desk. 

“If such words were delivered up to a Lannister then I am sure they were received as intended, Lord Manfrey.”

She wondered, as Manfrey gathered up his scrolls and books and left, what she might make of this Tyrion Lannister that Lord Tywin had sent to them—the second time in living memory that the man had offered the dwarf up to the Martells’ tender mercies. Arianne found herself oddly curious to meet the infamous Imp of the Rock.

* * *

 

In the far distance to her left the ruins of Valyria smoked and burned. Dany knew little of the Doom, enough to resist the urge to venture closer should she get over the feeling of forbidden streets and curses without number. 

Even Valyrians had hated Valyrians, she’d gathered from her rather scattered education as a girl. Viserys had cared little for Essosi history, his eyes forever turned Westward. The long journey East to Vaes Dothrak had perhaps sped his descent into madness as they traveled further and further from his ultimate goal. 

_ Would he have been as mad as the people say our father was? _ She would never know, only that she still mourned the boy who had sold his mother’s crown so he might keep Dany one more day. It was heroic and tragic and showed her a different future that they might have had. 

In the Free Cities they might have settled, learned trades, and she might have been a queen of his heart and his home—mother to children with his elfin face and their forebears’ purple eyes. It reminded her of her longing for the house with the red door. Simple, childish, and oh how she ached for it during the freezing nights she’d had after Drogo’s death. But what had happened could not be undone and now she flew, freezing once more on the windblown back of Drogon, to claim a boy as husband. 

They, she and Drogon, had flown aimlessly in the mountains north of Meereen for weeks so she and the dragon might learn one another. Their habits and breaths. 

The week spent flying past the ruin of the Freehold, a month after leaving the mountains, showed her both the greatness and folly of the ancient dragonlords. 

A folly repeated in miniature for generations of her own House. True there had been great kings of men but there had also been madness which lay not far below the skins of the rest. The last true and great generations of Targaryens had been borne by Dornishwomen she reminded herself when the painting of Prince Quentyn flashed before her eyes. 

In the days before she left Meereen she’d distanced herself from Daario, wanting to spare him months of hope in case the painter had failed to capture the Martell boy’s beauty or spirit. 

_ I must be as my namesake _ , she decided as the Freehold disappeared over her left shoulder, gradually obscured by distance, smoke, and mists,  _ and be as wise as her brother, King Daeron II. It may not be happy but this world is so grim and dark already without another bitter Targaryen ruling over it. _

Prince Doran’s letter, signed also by his daughter, invited her to stay and sup with a certain Triarch Malaquo of House Maegyr. He was aged and warlike, Prince Doran wrote, and would not like her penchant for freeing slaves but that his grief at his granddaughter’s murder rode roughshod over his anger at Dany herself. Included also were the griefwords of Volantis that she ought to speak to the Maegyrs on behalf of the Martells. 

Dany admired the obviously careful planning and research that Prince Doran displayed. Jorah had said the man had married a Norvoshi woman and traveled all the Free Cities as a youth. The Dornishman also suggested places of rest, and these proved invaluable as Dany herself did not exactly trust the more populous places west of the Fourteen Flames. That he’d arranged safe places to sleep and eat and rest was a boon she relied on heavily as the days wore into weeks. Dragons were fast but the world was larger. 

She flew as high as Drogon would allow her when she saw the sprawl of Volantis—the Long Bridge, the ruin beyond the Rhoyne of an ancient city of the Rhoynar, and the Black Walls. As a child, Dany had come here with Viserys, but she struggled to remember anything in clear detail that would mean anything now. All she knew now was that within those dragonglass walls she would find House Maegyr still writhing with grief. 

Dany cautiously urged Drogon lower, watchful for ‘weapons upon the walls,’ as Prince Doran had warned her. She circled the city for hours, lowering by degrees so she could judge their intent as well as show hers. 

Drogon was but a dragonling, she knew, compared to what he would grow to but with him she had taken cities. She wanted to remind her hosts that few had ever killed a dragon without aid of their own dreaded beast. She was not a Valyrian dragonlord come to set fire upon those who defied her—nor was she her mad father. She was Daenerys II Targaryen, the mother of dragons.

_ The Dornish killed one, perhaps that is what Prince Doran means by weapons on the walls. Queen Rhaenys, who lost her seat _ _._

Gradually, after midday, she saw a retinue of elephants lumber up the walls to assemble on the battlements. The dragonglass walls shimmered beneath their feet, the animals themselves dwarfed by the hulk of the ancient walls raised up by the Valyrians. She made out three elephants at the lead, all decorated and painted with tiger stripes done in white and red. This was her cue—and Drogon gladly set down his huge body on the Black Walls of Old Volantis. 

_ You will have to prove your lineage back to Old Valyria but that is little trouble for a Targaryen _ , had been Prince Doran’s last words on Old Volantis before going on to cover other subjects. 

Those who greeted her spoke a beautiful and pure High Valyrian to her, announcing their names and titles and histories—and never before had Dany been truly glad that she spoke Valyrian the way the Dothraki rode horses. Easily and without thought.

There was Triarch Malaquo the Maegyr, his brother Malarys, Taropta daughter of Malarys and Taropta’s husband Malasar son of Malaquo. It was these last two whose daughter, Talisa, that the family mourned so heavily and adorned themselves with the ancient Valyrian griefcolor. A youth, Dany’s age, was presented as Talisa’s grieving younger brother Talarro. 

Seeing a family still mourning their loss a year on made Dany wary of them. The longer one grieved the more one hungered for revenge she’d found. Viserys’ grief had driven him mad. Dany’s had not, and she for the most part had burned it out of herself long ago. 

“My name is Daenerys, second of her name, of the Targaryen, one of the forty great houses of the Ancient Freehold of Valyria,” she said, never moving from her high seat on Drogon’s back, “and my heart bleeds until it is white at the loss of your daughter Queen Talisa the Stark. I bring also word from Prince Doran the Martell, who shares Targaryen blood, of his grief at her death. Would you break bread with me at the Temple of Vhagarys to mourn her?” Taropta the Maegyr sobbed, her eyes red from weeping, and her father and uncle both nodded their agreement to Dany’s platitudes.

The Volantenes were the last of the Freehold that her ancestors had fled, and Dany was a bit curious if she might figure out why during her visit here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the Volantene's have "So and so the So and So," because that's what I think it would sound like in ancient high valyrian--so that's why that's there. Also poor Tyrion and his constantly failing plans...??
> 
> Lord vs Prince among the Martells: to me, you get the title of Prince or Princess if you are part of the main ruling family--since Lord Manfrey's family never sat on the spearchair or sunchair it means that they don't get to be Prince So and So. Yes. Go there with me, because it's happening.
> 
> Let me know what you think of this chapter and thank you for reading!


	50. Sansa, Areo, Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oberyn flips the heck out in this chapter and is really not okay. He needs a hug. 
> 
> This chapter takes place probably a week after we last saw the Water Gardens and such. The arrival of Jon's letter is contemporary to Tyrion & Dany's timeline. Sorry to be all GRRMy at you D:

Sansa had been told that today at midday was when Oberyn and Ser Daemon would both be told of her treatment in King’s Landing—A man named Areo Hotah would bar Doran’s solar against Oberyn potentially escaping, and guards would be posted around the terrace she would spend the day in to keep him from frightening her or trying to take her away from the gardens to Sunspear or some other mad plot that Oberyn would come up with. 

She sat with Ellaria, chatting animatedly with Loree and Doree as the girls played and caroused. El and Bel, nearly twins in behavior, had been dragged away by a pair of Septas to lessons with Maester Myles. Between the four of them they alternated days spent with the poor beleaguered man. He cared for the family, particularly Doran, but also spent time educating Oberyn’s girls as well as Trystane and Princess Myrcella. 

Ellaria was murmuring faint praises over the nameday outfit, her fingers trailing reverently over the embroidery on the tiny sleeves—belled out in the style she remembered from her mother’s dresses, and with a long trailing gown that would spill over the arms of whoever held the child before the Septon. The stitching was a study in Sansa relearning the finer points of needlework, with many places having had to be picked out and redone for she wanted to give the other woman the very best. 

“It is too lovely for a bastard, my love,” Ellaria said, but held it to her chest nonetheless. Sansa beamed at the woman and accepted the kiss Ellaria gave her. She was glad of the family she’d found after hers had been taken—still, as the minutes crept by, she wished deeply that somehow she’d never told Doran about Ser Arys. Even if she would never have felt safe here, she wished for his sake she’d not said anything. 

_ I still have too big a mouth that will get men killed and worse _ . Her words had gotten Father killed, and Lady, and the butcher boy, and who knew how many others. Now they would be the end of Ser Arys Oakheart who had hit her out of fear and duty and not an ounce of malice. 

Loree sat on her lap, though, and pulled out the ribbons that Tyene had put in just this morning—putting them into Sansa’s hands one by one, and then settling in in an obvious bid for Sansa to braid her hair. She gladly distracted herself with the task, schooling herself into serenity should Oberyn burst into the room covered in another man’s blood. He certainly had it in him, and so did Ser Daemon if word was to be believed here in Dorne about him. 

Sansa for one believed the tales about the Bastard of Godsgrace, and she’d seen the Red Viper firsthand.

* * *

 

The Prince rarely played his hand so broadly as he did today, Areo thought as he settled back against the door. To be sure, Prince Oberyn could just as easily jump the railing into the water pool and swim should he want to escape somehow but they all hoped their other preventative measures would counsel the younger Prince against it. 

First Ser Daemon had been called to meet with Prince Doran, and then Ser Arys, and now finally here was Prince Oberyn. Areo had seen the head that had been brought back from King’s Landing, the roughly hewn flesh puckered and discolored with the poisons that had rushed through Gregor Clegane’s body before his death. That had been the first collection on the debt owed by House Lannister—though the little woman, Princess Sansa, had survived her time in King’s Landing she had not escaped unscathed. It was obvious to all who’d seen them together that the Prince and his paramour were devoted to the redheaded girl they’d returned from the capitol with. 

Prince Oberyn was obviously on guard as he saw the other guards in the room, and the strategic placement of Areo himself. A roomful of Dornishmen and a single knight of the Kingsguard was certainly strange. 

“Oberyn, you remember Ser Arys, of the Kingsguard?”

“I do, he hangs about our chambers often enough when Princess Myrcella visits and plays with my daughters. Ellaria had managed to teach him cyvasse before we left for the little butc—King Joffrey’s wedding.” Prince Oberyn rarely made such slips of the tongue, and Areo knew it was on purpose. Though he respected the knight he occasionally reminded Ser Arys of how Dornishmen felt about the Baratheons and about their rule. 

“Oberyn, I want you to sit down.”

The younger brother’s head snapped to look Prince Doran in the eyes—measuring what was intended by the remark, even as he moved to take a seat. Prince Doran met Areo’s eyes and gave a slight nod. His reflexes might be the only thing that saved Ser Arys’ life in the next few moments. 

“Ser Arys, do you remember Sansa Stark? My brother’s wife?” Prince Oberyn’s eyes narrowed and his glance towards Ser Arys was slow and dark. The brothers were smart—wickedly so, Areo had learned over the last twenty odd years. Ser Arys for his part swallowed thickly and nodded, his shaggy mouse brown hair falling in his eyes. His white cloak spread out behind him on the seat, pure as the snow Areo only dimly remembered from his childhood in Norvos. He’d been born during a long Winter, the snows abating shortly after he’d been given to the bearded priests as a boy. 

“Lady—Princess Sansa was always sweet and kind to those around her. When she first arrived in the Capitol she would sing before the court, songs of bright haired Valyrian princes and spring,” he said, his eyes wary as he spoke. There was truth that hadn’t been spoken, Areo knew. Prince Doran had told him the reason for this meeting, and that he hoped the knight would speak the truth without prompting. Such confessions were hard to come by, Areo reflected as he once more recalled the severed head of Gregor Clegane. 

They said the Seven abhorred blood magics and the preservation of bodies after death—better the bodies burn, or be eaten away by holy insects than be preserved—but that the Faith abhorred the abuse of mothers and young children on an equal footing. Princess Sansa had not carried her husband’s child when she’d been beaten but she had been betrothed to the King and destined to mother his children. It was abhorrent to the religion of these Westerosi, and all the more so to Dornishmen who held close to their religion. 

“How did my dear wife fare after her father’s murder?” Prince Oberyn’s voice was deceptively light, as his hand went for the dagger Prince Doran had given him two years ago for his thirty fifth nameday. It was not decorative in the least.

“She—she did not sing anymore. The King summoned her to…rebuke…her for her family’s treason. She was often escorted by the Hound, Sandor Clegane.”

“What such rebukes, Ser Arys?” Prince Doran expressed only concern, his tone curious and solicitous. A visiting lord from the Stormlands had once said in Areo’s hearing that Dornishmen were snakes, and none more so than those who ruled over the rest. Here now affirmed the worry of the rest of Westeros—Prince Oberyn the fast striking viper, deadly from a single strike if necessary, and Prince Doran the python such as Areo had seen in a traveling festival on his journey from Volantis with Princess Mellario. The ringmaster had had the python strangle a slave for the entertainment of the pureborn—and there were cheers when the beast finished the poor man off. 

There would be cheers in Dorne when Prince Doran finally took his full revenge. 

“The King—the King ordered her brought before the court and would solicit her apology for her brother’s actions.” Prince Doran sighed and Areo only saw the snake from so long ago as it waited for the slave to exhale before squeezing tighter around the man’s ribcage. The man’s own breaths had betrayed him. 

“She’s told me, Ser Arys, she’s told me more than my old ears could bear to hear. My goodsister was dragged, sometimes half-dressed, before the court by the Kingsguard and was beaten. King Joffrey would point a crossbow at her until she knelt, and the Kingsguard would fall upon her like dogs. She endured these beatings in silence and thanked the King for his ‘trouble’ before being dragged away. Her wounds never met with a maester’s eye, and she says that no one save her handmaiden and the Imp ever lifted finger to stop her pain.”

Ser Arys stared at his lap, and Prince Oberyn seemed to have stopped breathing—only to drag in a shaking breath, deep and powerful, as he stood up. His hands were shaking, each finger trembling with a rage kept leashed by only the power of every god given a name by men. 

“Is this true?” Areo remembered the day that the Prince was told of his sister’s death—he’d been much the same as now, but only seven and ten years of patience had been in him then and Prince Doran had ordered Areo to hold the young man down lest he hurt himself somehow. He wasn’t sure now, though, that seven and thirty years was enough—if anything would ever be enough to give proper patience to the Red Viper of Dorne. 

Ser Arys took a deep breath of his own—perhaps having made peace with his seven Gods and felt he could meet the Stranger in good conscience. 

“The King was not of sound mind. He believed Princess Sansa responsible for her brother’s doings. If we did not beat her the King would have us killed—I protested, the first time, and King Joffrey announced that only traitors would dare defend a traitor’s sister. He—he reminded us of the fate of the traitorous Lord Stark. I—my prince, I only used training blows and only where her gowns were thickest. She was but a child—”

Prince Oberyn growled and lunged towards Ser Arys—and it was only because of the combined efforts of Ser Daemon and Areo himself that the man didn’t make it to the knight. As they struggled to hold Prince Oberyn he yelled out curses upon House Oakheart and upon Ser Arys’ honor as a knight. Ser Daemon looked as angry as his lover, and Areo suspected it was his own presence that had won the tide in the man’s choice of action. Had he not been present, Ser Daemon would be helping Prince Oberyn attack Ser Arys. 

“Oberyn, calm yourself.” Prince Doran’s voice was even and reserved—his own vicious anger at Ser Arys already cooled to a simmer below the surface. 

“I will not!” Prince Oberyn yelled, writhing in the hold that kept him from the Kingsguard knight. 

“What will you do if they let you free?” Areo was not deceived then by Oberyn going limp in his hands, it was a ploy used to lull them into loosening their grip on his arms. If anything he tightened his hold with one hand and changed the grip he had on Prince Oberyn with the other. The silence stretched for a long moment before the Prince surged forward once more with a cry of rage.

“I want his head—I want all their heads, but his is here.” 

“You may not have his head,” Prince Doran said sternly over the grumbling and cursing coming out of his younger brother, “he was as innocent in this as your wife, Oberyn, and would you take her head for  _ allowing _ such abuses to happen to her?”

“She did not allow—brother, please. Since the first day here she’s— _ Doran _ _,_ ” Prince Oberyn was fighting their hold less, and after a few moments of silence Areo decided to chance letting him loose. Ser Daemon kept a firm grip around his waist but otherwise they allowed the Prince to stand tall once more. It was interesting to watch him school himself into composure once more for the fact that it took only a breath to return to his usual demeanor. A viper indeed.

“Ser Arys have you seen or spoken to Princess Sansa since her arrival here?”

“No, Prince Oberyn,” the knight replied, “I have not.”

Prince Oberyn rolled his shoulders, smoothing away the discomfort of the harsh grasp Areo had locked him in, and paced away towards the railing of the terrace after getting Ser Daemon to let him go. Perhaps he would try to swim to his own chambers after all—it was a shorter swim than it was a walk, and he would make it there before even the fastest guards. It was why Prince Doran had posted some already with the girl. 

“You will apologize—and she will set whatever punishment or atonement she deems necessary. Do you know that she still dreams of her torments? My wife woke up screaming last night, and cried herself to sleep in utter silence afterwards. I only knew because of her shuddering—not even a whimper escaped her lips.” Prince Oberyn let the silence linger then, before continuing. 

“Make no mistake, I still want your head. I want it so that I might know you will lift neither hand nor sword nor  _ thought _ to her ever again. My brother would make the proper excuses, get the proper lies told in order that I might never face the Crown’s anger at your death—but he asks that I spare you.”

“And I thank him for—”

“But if my wife asks for your head, she will be given it.”

Areo didn’t think that the young woman that Prince Oberyn had wed would ask for such a gruesome present but then again she had endured torture at Ser Arys’ hands. She had not married even-tempered Prince Doran, instead she allowed Prince Oberyn in her bed and carried his child in her. The Estron Dornish rarely bore or fathered children they did not want or plan—and so the babe in her was of her own volition, for her husband would never have forced one on her. 

“Prince Oberyn—”

“I need to speak to my brother, please leave us. Oberyn, might Ser Daemon escort Ser Arys to see Sansa? You will scare her as you are now, so you will remain here.” The fight went out of Prince Oberyn’s shoulders then, and he nodded a dull agreement to the plan. Ser Daemon surged forward to manhandle Ser Arys out the door and Areo moved to let him before Prince Doran’s voice softly called out—

“Areo Hotah will go with you, to ensure that Princess Myrcella’s sworn sword arrives in the same number and condition of pieces I see him now, Ser Daemon.”

Areo gave a short bow of acknowledgment and followed Ser Daemon out and watched impassively as the young bastard shoved Arys up against the wall outside of Prince Doran’s solar. 

“The Princess is no child, _oathbreaker_ , and you will not talk to her or about her as such. _Was_ an innocent? Even now she is innocent, and sweet, and good, and I would drown you among the princefish if she asked it of me—and she would _yet_ be innocent. Do not presume to blame the orders of others for the actions you yourself carried out.”

Areo lay a heavy hand on Ser Daemon’s shoulder and the knight released the kingsguard—shoving him once more up against the wall before stalking towards the wing of rooms where Princess Sansa would be found. Prince Doran was wise to keep his brother with him, Areo thought as he watched Ser Daemon pull at his hair and grumble curses under his breath and the dejected march of a dead man that Ser Arys affected as they walked. 

If left to his own devices, the madness still in Prince Oberyn after the death of his sister would have taken him and Ser Arys would not have survived his journey to apologize to Princess Sansa. At least Ser Daemon was biddable by both brothers, and obedient to the orders of Prince Doran above those of Prince Oberyn.

* * *

 

Jon was surprised when a letter arrived from Sunspear, brought to him by Sam still bound up in wax and ribbon. In it was a short note from Prince Doran, the Lord of Sunspear and Ruler of Dorne, explaining that men would soon be sent to the Watch by Dorne—a veiled allusion to war if Jon had ever seen one, since it was well remarked upon that rapists and murderers among the Dornish were executed by slow torture in far southron Dorne. Princess Nymeria had, a thousand years ago, sent six Dornish kings to the Wall to keep them from disputing Martell power over Dorne and when Jon asked Maester Aemon for confirmation the old man had smiled faintly. 

“The Dornish do not feed their prisoners and enemies willingly. It does not come naturally to a race of people so deeply embedded in the sand, and Prince Doran’s commanders will likely send their prisoners to bolster the ranks of the Watch than ransom them.”

“But surely it is more…civilized to ransom them? They have to be fed on their way to the Wall,” Jon had said, trailing off when Sam shook his head vigorously. 

“No, Jon, not with the Dornish. I read that they cut off the sword hand, like your Boltons do, and my father told me of an uncle who lost his hand in Skyreach for beating a…a bastard lady he took for a whore. They take your money and don’t give back the warrior you paid for. You Starks and your Northmen look like a horde of peacemongers compared to the Dornish at war.”

There’d been a long silence then, as Jon contemplated the den of snakes that his sister had ended up in after the lion pit. She was of the North, though, and cold was the bane of serpents. 

“Lady Sansa writes that she is with child by her husband Prince Oberyn, and that she’s been well-cared for by him. Would they take her hand if I paid some ransom to get her back?” Maester Aemon had reached out a shaking hand to pat Jon’s arm, his smile widening into a grin. 

“If she brought no war or illwill with her your sister is treated as a Princess, if not a Queen, and people sing to her in the streets when she walks them Lord Commander. Taking Prince Doran’s words together with hers, you might expect to see her and drink hot Dornish wine with her husband before you die. Think on that as you manage the affairs of the Watch, my boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I am worried here because I am not sure I captured Areo's voice correctly here, but that's how it is going to be I think. 
> 
> Let me know if you liked it!


	51. Sansa, Tyrion, Ellaria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait for an update, life has been crazy! I'm glad you all liked Doran & his epic planning.

Sansa looked at the girls as they played in the shallows, swimming like fish between each other and splashing happily as they did. So far she had only done a bit of wading, sitting on the edge of one of the pools for the most part rather than getting into the carefully tended ponds. Ellaria was dozing on the terrace above them, and Ser Daemon stood a dozen paces away—watchful, as Oberyn had asked him to be, over the family as he traveled to Sunspear to spend a few weeks helping Arianne. 

Just days ago she had reluctantly set Ser Arys Oakheart to the task of a pilgrimage to the Sept of Fhoserrio. He was to reaffirm all his vows as a knight save those as a Kingsguard. Those, she had said, were a matter between himself and the Gods. In truth it had been a judgment on his decision to serve the Baratheon kings, and though she hadn’t said it she meant for him to forsake the crown. He’d been brought before her by Ser Daemon and Doran’s captain of the guard, Areo Hotah, and both men had glowered at their charge as he bent the knee to her as though she was a queen enthroned. 

Later that night Oberyn had come to their chambers and held Sansa tightly in his arms, asking in whispers what she would have him do. His dark hair, twisting into curls at the nape of his neck, had been soft between her fingers as she carded them through each lock.

“Your brother makes for war, does he not?” At Oberyn’s nod she’d kissed his temple, then his cheek and nose and then the corner of his mouth. 

“Then announce to his armies, when the time comes, the names of those pets of the Crown—and order no quarter be given those men. I do not need them in chains, nor will their deaths ease my nightmares my love but I fear you will run mad should you see the ones who actually hurt me. Who enjoyed it as much as the one who ordered my pain.”

“I would have them sent to the Hellholt,” he murmured darkly, “and ensure that Maester Wollam extends their lives until they feel the heat of all seven hells lapping at their heels before the end.”  _ He is as grim as a Northman _ _,_ Sansa had thought with a wan smile, hugging him close to her chest. The child in her, four months grown, would be born into a world that cared for her pain and sought to cease it. It would also grow up hardy on truths and realities instead of fairy stories and songs—she would not stand for her daughter to repeat her mistakes. The girl would be a daughter of the North as well as of the South. 

“Do you not think the Wall might suffice, my love?”

He’d chuckled, making an aborted attempt to shake his head at her words. 

“I would see the Wall somehow returned to the honor it used to hold in men’s minds—not as a reward of survival for those who defy the law of their lords. Perhaps your brother will help me?” Sansa smiled faintly, a little in awe of the patches of brutality and idealism that made up her husband. In truth his own mixture between tenderness and violence gave her confidence that he would not be shocked when she brought the justice of the Starks to bear against her enemies. 

It almost, now that she reflected on that nighttime conversation, made her glad that the Lannisters had deprived her of Ice—she wasn’t yet taller than it had been and it would have been a tremendous effort to wield it let alone use it to dispense the law of the North.

* * *

 

Riding into Sunspear was surreal to say the least, in Tyrion’s mind. He had known that it was a city the color of earth, and that it was said to be pathetic compared to the high seats of the six other Great Houses. What Tyrion saw, though, was a city in preparation for some grand celebration—the mud brick homes of the shadow city surrounding the curtain wall were being painted in brilliant colors and patterns of orange and turquoise, yellow and black and blood red. 

When Artos announced their party at the Threefold Gate the smallfolk gave a hearty cheer when Bronn and Sweet Lollys were announced as newlywedded—and the paint applied so lately to the houses was daubed on the carriage the carried Lord and Lady Stokeworth by little old men who babbled on in Rhoynish. Soon the stately carriage bearing the Baratheon griefcolor was richly adorned in fool’s motley and Tyrion couldn’t help but think that his father  had had the caveat of ‘as much dignity as Tyrion could muster,’ and that this wasn’t so bad.

No one had drawn a sword on them yet, either, which was heartily gladdening.

Tyrion couldn’t help but wonder, as he saw the towers of the palace gleaming in the sun, if it was all part of the same ruse the Jordaynes and the Allyrions had subjected him to. Painting half the city was a bit farfetched, though, and he counseled himself against the notion as they road straight through the otherwise serpentine city. 

As they did so Tyrion saw a head and shoulders he was sure he recognized—up ahead rode Prince Oberyn Martell among a small retinue of knights who easily allowed the smallfolk to reach up towards the prince and grasp at his free hand. Giving instructions for the rest of his own party to continue as normal, Tyrion rode forward and called out to the other man and bit back a grin as Prince Oberyn turned his horse almost in a whole circle before he saw Tyrion himself. 

“My lord Tyrion,” he said, stilling the progress he’d been making through the crowd that lined the streets, “you were not so charmed by Dorne as my lady wife, it would seem—we did not expect you for another week!” Tyrion twitched a smile at the other man, who was just as coy as Lady Jordayne had been weeks ago. 

“I’m sure. We bear a message from the King and made all haste after being warned that the Dornish Winter only grows harsher on the north coasts.” Prince Oberyn nodded, urging his horse forward once more with space left for Tyrion to ride next to him. 

“We shall have to keep you here, marry you to a nice Dornishwoman—”

“Ahm, I think not, Prince Oberyn—every time my life has turned towards marriage it has not boded well for either myself or the lady, if you’ll remember.” The prince laughed, not taking his eyes from the cobblestone street before them. 

“I know someone who would disagree,” he began before a hobbling old couple begged their prince to stop, the old woman stroking the horse’s face and neck while the man kissed Prince Oberyn’s hand and then daubed a geometric design on the shoulder and crest of the beast. The three exchanged some words in what could only be Rhoynish before Prince Oberyn kissed his fingertips and pressed them to the lips of each elder. 

Tyrion vaguely wondered if he might have done some reading up on Dorne before he came here—this nonsense had certainly not been at the forefront of activities in any of the towns previous, though in fairness Planky Town had already been painted when they arrived. 

“What was that?”

“A blessing on my children, Lord Tyrion, and that I might have as many as there are stars. The Orphans consider it auspicious that a man of the sun has married a woman of the moon.” Tyrion, through the tightness in his chest, managed to chuckle out a question of what  that might mean. He was still angry at Prince Oberyn for savaging Sansa, but it was difficult in the face of the man’s congenial temper. 

“There has not been snow in eastern Dorne for a century, Lord Tyrion, and not since before the Doom of Valyria has it fallen in Sunspear. The Orphans call it the moon’s tears, and consider those tears to be part of Sansa’s blood just as they see the sun as part of mine.” Right then Tyrion wanted to beg for information of the poor girl he’d sent here—was she safe? Happy? Were the rumors of her babe as fabricated as the welcoming of Lord Ryon Allyrion?

“Come—my brother’s daughter waits to greet me, you may come as well. It will spare you waiting for the smallfolk to congratulate your hired killer on his nuptials.”

“Is that what that was all about?” Tyrion muttered as he urged his own horse to follow the black and orange stallion Prince Oberyn rode. Their progress was a little faster than the carriage and entourage had been, though they did stop a few more times for the smallfolk to paint Prince Oberyn’s mount. Watching them Tyrion was reminded a bit of Queen Margaery and her efforts to win the people of King’s Landing back to the Crown after Joffrey’s idiocy—though these small rituals seemed welcome and familiar for all parties involved. 

One of the knights, wearing the colors of House Dalt, saw his questioning glances and spoke up. 

“The festival of Cen Rhoy is nearly upon us—it celebrates the landing of Princess Nymeria and the Great Wedding, as well as the Orphaning Fire. On the black moon after next the streets will glow with ten thousand lanterns for her ships, and newlyweds and newborns will wear turquoise and orange on their way to the septs for a blessing.” It seemed a rather garish combination to Tyrion before the knight continued, his seat easy on his horse as they started once again rode towards the palace. 

“We celebrate it every thirty moons—for the time the Rhoynar spent on their journey, and this year will be especially boisterous because of Prince Oberyn’s marriage to Princess Sansa. It has been too long since a member of the high family married, and the people are dearly happy to see Prince Oberyn wed.”

The palace was brisk inside—Sunspear wasn’t as cold as Godsgrace had been, but Dorne was becoming as cold and miserable as he remembered the North being when he’d visited with the royal family. He walked next to Prince Oberyn, glancing up at the prince who looked as though he’d sprung from the murals on the walls. No longer did this man seem strange and out of place, but rather Tyrion felt that his doublet and breeches were alien in this place of sweeping robes mixed with too much skin. Women and men alike wore trailing robes, though Tyrion had a hard time keeping his eyes from following the women whose hems were daring beneath fluttering silks. 

When they arrived at the doors of a small solar, Prince Oberyn bade him wait a moment even as he himself was admitted into the room. He only caught the briefest announcement.

“Prince Regent Oberyn presents himself, Princess Arianne,” someone said from within, and a happy exclamation followed before the door was shut. Tyrion focused on adjusting his clothing, self-consciousness sinking in now that he was alone. Prince Oberyn had assured him that the rest of the party were being escorted properly to their rooms, and that since Princess Arianne was the one he had business with there was little reason to wait. 

After a half hour of murmured voices he was ushered into the room. 

“Lord Tyrion Lannister, the Master of Coin, presents himself, Princess Arianne, Prince Regent Oberyn.”

Inside the room he was faced with Prince Oberyn, lounging on a wide windowsill that overlooked the sea, while another two men sat at a wide table. One wore a maester’s chain and looked old, fat, and cheery despite his bald pate. The other shared a little of Prince Oberyn’s looks, though he obviously wasn’t Prince Doran for it was said the brothers looked quite alike despite the difference in their age. 

“Lord Tyrion, I am glad you have arrived safely in Sunspear,” a voice called from over his shoulder. At a wide desk far from the windows sat a young woman who was lovely and dark and—the princess. Tyrion made a hasty bow then, murmuring his own greeting to her. He would need to ask after a brothel, he couldn’t keep staring at every woman he saw. 

From Prince Oberyn’s smirk his too-long glance had been noted. 

“My cousin Lord Manfrey,” the Princess gestured to the man who resembled Prince Oberyn, “tells me you broke your journey in Planky Town—how did you find it? I’ve always thought it an adventurous place, half upon the banks of the river and half floating,” Princess Arianne said, a smile coloring her voice. Tyrion took his lead from there, deciding to fall back on his cutting tongue. Prince Oberyn had appreciated it, all those months ago, and perhaps that was the Dornish way.

“It was certainly an adventure as you say. I saw so little of the world before I left Casterly Rock a few years ago,” he paused, “and though I’ve seen much of Westeros since then, and I must say that saving Dorne for the last has certainly been a treat.”

“It is a shame you had to see it in Winter, my lord,” Lord Manfrey said, his tone reminiscent in some way of Varys’ voice. A man of whispers, then, and with the family connections to forge proper loyalty. His father might have learned something from these Martells, trusting more than just his brother Kevan with family affairs. Tyrion twitched a smile at him before beginning the idiotic pleasantries required before moving on to the business his father had sent him on.

Hopefully these smiling Dornishmen wouldn’t laugh at his father’s plea for aid against the wreckage that Daenerys Stormborn would bring with her.

* * *

 

Ellaria watched as Tyene and Nym taught Sansa how to swim. She knew Oberyn had wanted that chore for himself but he craved her touch and intimacy and she distracted him sometimes enough to forget his purpose. The young woman certainly distracted Ellaria herself from her own worries, dearly enjoying curling up with Sansa after the girls had gone to bed. 

Though all else with the babe in her seemed normal, Ellaria felt that there was something not right. There were still the usual kicks, and Maester Myles said all was normal, but she couldn’t shake the feeling. She hated it, even though everything pointed to a smooth birth, and she wished that she was a different woman. A different woman would have written to Oberyn asking for him to return to the gardens and be with her through these last few weeks—but she was not. Ellaria had confidence in Myles, and she had Sansa and two of the elder girls close by. Besides, Oberyn was only a few hours’ ride away if she needed him. 

She tried to relax and put her nerves down to her worries over Sansa. The younger woman was likely carrying twins from how big she was getting already and though she’d never birthed twins herself, Ellaria knew it would be arduous on Sansa for a number of reasons. Her age being the greatest of those, but also this was to be her first time. Put all three in the same mix and Ellaria’s heart raced with anxiety. She was loath to lose this pearl of a woman she and Oberyn had pried out of King’s Landing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wanna take a tiny second to recommend you maybe take a little look at the other Oberyn/Sansa stories that are starting to pop up lately--because this ship needs all the love it can get! Read them, kudo them, and give them a review if you've got time! 
> 
> I also encourage you, if you've got a tiny headcanon for the ship, to write it and post it! I think we're all starved for it! I will for one love you to pieces :D
> 
> So--thank you for reading this story, by the way, I love and appreciate everyone who chooses to comment after reading the chapter! Let me know what you think of this one!


	52. Tyrion, Dany, Steffon Manwoody

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately Tyrion doesn't get to visit a brothel yet, but that is perhaps coming. Or not. I cannot wait to reveal what his endgame is actually going to be. You are all going to hate me...and it is going to be glorious. That being said, remember that nothing bad is going to happen to Ellaria. To Ellaria.
> 
> Yeah. 
> 
> Otherwise we have some Oberyn & Tyrion hanging out, we've also got Dany, and lastly we have....a surprise...!

The meeting with the Martells was utterly useless to say the least, and Tyrion’s mood was not helped when Prince Oberyn made a quip that Tywin had not paid for this list of demands—there were only so many times he could fuck his wife in a day, he wasn’t a young man anymore. There’d been something cold in the Dornish prince’s face as he spoke that had Tyrion holding his tongue against whatever might have spilled out otherwise. The others in the room had laughed heartily, clearly enjoying his discomfort. He called an early end to the day then for he realized that he’d been played. 

It was no chance meeting that had the Prince of Dorne riding on the only straight road to the palace, and only thirty paces from the newly arrived host from King’s Landing that Tyrion had brought with him. This had been part of a plan to put him on the backfoot and allow Prince Oberyn and his niece to make their demands while he scrambled to state his own. The smirk on Prince Oberyn’s face as he offered to share a drink with Tyrion in his own solar was evidence enough that the Martells were pleased as punch with how the day had gone. 

Shae had once told him that not all Dornishmen were the kind and virtuous type that Prince Doran so longed the rest of Westeros to see. There were bad people in Dorne, devious and black of heart, just as there were everywhere else. Still—

“How does your wife fare, Prince Oberyn?” He walked at a sedate pace since the other man was unfailingly courteous in matching his speed—and a sedate pace for a dwarf was that of a snail, if his father Tywin was to be believed. 

“The Princess is well, Lord Tyrion, and the maester tells me her happiness is paramount to a successful birth for our daughter. I only wish that I might provide her a son, but it is not to be.”

As they walked into Prince Oberyn’s private solar Tyrion glanced up at the man and lightly remarked:

“I rather thought it was the other way ‘round—that as the one who carries the babe and births it, it is the woman’s responsibility to provide her husband with sons.” Prince Oberyn, who had walked to the table and poured two cups of wine and now made his way back to Tyrion, laughed and shook his head. There was a wistful and slightly disbelieving set to his mouth as he sat heavily on the chaise, motioning for Tyrion to find his own seat. 

“Does the earth bear responsibility for the seeds grown from it? If the farmer plants potatoes who is to blame when potatoes sprout? No, my lord, it is I who put the seed into her and it is I who am to blame when she hands me a daughter in a few months’ time.” Tyrion made an agreeing face, knowing it was a good point. It was a point that was never brought up in Casterly Rock, though, for it would have meant that his father Tywin’s dearest wish that Tyrion was a bastard was wholly untrue—and that it had been Tywin Lannister to put a dwarf into his dear Joanna’s belly. 

“Prince Oberyn, might I speak a thought plainly?” The other man motioned for him to continue, sipping at the golden wine he’d poured for them. No Dornish red so far—and Tyrion was glad for it, because he feared it might grow cold as they spoke of serious matters. 

“Do you remember my…my plea on behalf of Lady—Princess—Sansa?” Prince Oberyn nodded, his face revealing nothing. 

“I had rather thought to spare her…certain pain, and had thought that perhaps given your outrage at your sister’s treatment that…” he searched for words then that his companion soon filled.

“That I might delay consummating my marriage to such a lovely creature?” For an instant Tyrion wondered if he saw a jest in Prince Oberyn’s eyes, but it was gone sooner than he had time to think it, and he felt a little bereft at the thought that he’d inflicted such a man on Sansa. He had promised her he would never hurt her, but sending her to Dorne  had hurt her—proving her distrust of Lannisters of all shapes and sizes.

“Or at least not,” Tyrion sighed, giving up on finding kind words for what troubled him, “at least not fuck her bloody as you did. Prince Oberyn, she was a maid—and one much abused by my nephew before you arrived in King’s Landing. It has haunted me that in trying to save her from my family I put her in the arms of a man who—”

“You think I raped my wife? You think I looked at that woman, at the scars on her back, and held her down while smothering her screams? Or that she was dutiful and bore it as a grunting stranger rutted on her like an animal?” There was an iciness to Prince Oberyn’s voice, a crazed edge to his stare at Tyrion that had him shifting subtly in his seat. Perhaps having this conversation when he didn’t have Bronn at hand wasn’t the best idea he’d had of late.

“You think that 'doing my utmost' for her involved her  _ torture _ _?_ ” There was true anger now in the man’s tone, coupled with disbelief. 

“I suppose I am not surprised,” Prince Oberyn scoffed then, instantly releasing the tension of the room as he drained his cup of wine and stood to pour another. Tyrion watched him warily as he did so. The broad shoulders that faced him heaved up and then sank down in a sigh, and the other man hung his head in some sort of defeat. 

“It is a broken world we live in, my lord Tyrion, but she deserved better than a rape from her rescuer. I waited until she came to my arms willingly, and have given her space when she’s desired it. My name is associated with gross excesses of carnality and violence, and so I shielded her with it when we were in the King’s city,” with a short, mirthless laugh Prince Oberyn turned and sat again across from Tyrion. 

“You all thought I would fuck a young virgin the way you all think I fuck my whores—so I let you think it. You all thought I would keep her locked away and on her back for me, so I locked her away and displayed a relationship of barely restrained sexuality. You thought me, and those I brought with me, crude and uncouth and so I dressed her in clothing obviously borrowed from my lover.”

“I am sorry I was mist—”

“You were only mistaken in your arrogance that somehow you knew best. You get it from your father, and it is probably the only thing I don’t like about you, Lord Tyrion,” Prince Oberyn interrupted, leaning back on the chaise and stretching his legs out on it. Tyrion’s gaze fell into his wine cup then, contemplating all that his companion had said. Somehow he’d gotten it into his head that honor looked like what the Starks held to, and that subterfuge looked like what his father held to, and in the middle somewhere everyone else muddled their way along. These Martells were dangerous in that they clung to high honor in the midst of their cunning. 

“You faked the bedding sheet,” he finally murmured, having worked it out for himself. 

“And Sansa’s own fears provided the rest of the story. Do not worry yourself that you didn’t realize it sooner, you weren’t meant to.” For the first time there was something kind in Prince Oberyn’s tone that Tyrion took comfort in.

* * *

 

The Maegyrs were a large family, proud of their heritage and their status within Volantis, and for the first time Dany encountered someone who utterly and fiercely hated her while at the same time respected her. Triarch Malaquo was old and bullish, and he deeply hated her for her quest to end the slavery in Slaver’s Bay. At the same time, he did not take to insulting her as a woman to do it—his words of censure rested solidly on her politics and not her womb, and it was oddly enough because of this that she spent her time with him. 

He taught her about how to run a sphere of influence whilst balancing power with others, interspersed with comments on what she’d done wrong in Meereen and the other cities she’d taken, and it was only rarely did he spend time cursing those who had killed his granddaughter. His brother was the more vitriolic of the two, as well as the woman’s parents. Taropta and Malasar went each day to the temples of Vhagarys and Meraxos to mourn their daughter—pleading to Vhagarys to ease Talisa’s spirit in death, and exhorting Meraxos to rip the faces from those who had murdered Talisa and her husband. 

Dany learned, shortly before she left for Tyrosh, from Malaquo that he did not summon the balistae to the Black Walls because he knew that out of all people in this world she most understood his anger and his grief. He gave her a letter for Prince Doran pledging the Volantene navy towards efforts to put Dany on the throne—in exchange for the names if not bodies of those who had killed King Robb and Queen Talisa Stark. 

She of course promised him he would have Talisa’s attackers living, if she took them as such. Her heart had ached when Taropta had told her that news of Talisa’s death arrived on the same day news of her pregnancy by the Stark boy did. Dany had taken the attacker of her son and husband and burned the woman—Taropta deserved the same sense of justice.

So, holding the letter close to her heart, Dany prepared to set off for Tyrosh—and after that she would have to push herself and Drogon across the Narrow Sea, over the Stepstones, and land in Sunspear. Her dragon was daubed in white and red griefcolor, looking for all the world like a breathing Targaryen banner, and on that last morning in Volantis she had accompanied a huge procession through the city to the temple of Meraxos. The Valyrian god of vengeance and honor was familiar only to her because of the hasty education about Volantis that Missandei had given her before her departure from Meereen, but it served her well now to know the ritual words used to invoke the god’s wrath. Though House Maegyr was not the only powerful nor ruling house of Volantis what was done to them was also seen as done to the city itself—and that a would-be Queen of Westeros acknowledged the wrong cemented the tentative bond she formed with the ruling Triarchs of Volantis.

It was something neither she nor Prince Doran could have planned on—but they benefited from it all the same.

* * *

 

Ser Steffon Manwoody—his cousin Dagos had arranged him to be known as Lord but it did not sit well with him and he only used the title when forced to by circumstance—walked the cairns alone that evening. The eight graves were well tended, even after the death of Lord Eddard Stark, and Steffon and his family said regular prayers for those buried at the crest of the ridge. Lord Stark had told them that Northmen did not rest easy beneath such paltry stones and that they ought to be vigilant. 

Twenty odd years ago it had seemed a threat made by a man made mad by grief, where the trust and friendship known before were burned away to nothingness. Now, though, as he walked, Steffon knew it was because Northmen buried their dead deep and in hard stone tombs and that this was done for a  reason . Lady Lyanna and Ser Arthur gave them the most trouble, but any of the spirits could play havoc or mischief. 

Steffon had spent several sleepless nights out here in the rain after Prince Oberyn’s host had departed, for the spirits had been fully roused to the point where he had felt the need to stand vigil over them. There were strange things in the world, but spirits were the easiest to both rile and calm—and he was well practiced at it these days. The shadows hardly ever warped into a human form, but he was ever watchful. The five Northmen buried here had died with questions in their hearts, and they sometimes howled those questions through the winding canyons of the Marches, and he was not alone in having seen the ghostly form of Lady Lyanna. 

So when Ser Steffon saw the man picking his way steadily along the path up to the ridge he clutched at his sword but did not call out or draw. Starktear was a beacon point, but thought by Stormlanders and Reachmen to be otherwise abandoned, and if the man was no spirit then Steffon intended to keep him unawares of the holdfast buried deep in the mountainside. 

“Be you spirit or a godsbedamned Marcher?” The gruff voice that called out bore an accent that Steffon vaguely remembered from when he’d fostered with the Mallisters of the Riverlands. 

“Neither. A Dornishman of House Manwoody, sworn to the Martells of Sunspear—but I return the question, my friend,” he called back, firming his grip on the sword at his side. The watchmen farther below must have missed this man—meaning he was a wily one, and wily meant dangerous in these troubled times. The Manwoodys and Yronwoods were not the guardians of the Dornish North for letting cutthroats and fools into the rest of Dorne. 

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m naught more than spirit, but I would rub shit on my face before I let a man say I was the thrall of a Stormlander or Reachman. Might I come up to the torches, and we have this conversation as men and not ghosts?”

Steffon swept his arm out with a half bow, indicating the man ought to hurry up the path. As he waited he walked to where the guards atop the holdfast might see him should this meeting take a turn for the violent. He rather hoped it did not—there was nothing that got the spirits in a rolling temper faster than violence here. Their blood had watered this soil unto their deaths, and they were jealous of it. 

The man who approached him was tall, and wore a peasant’s cloak over fishscale armor common in the Riverlands. His leggings were gray, and his boots obviously not his own, and there was a haggard set to his face as he swept the hood back from his head. 

“Well, Dornishman of House Manwoody, let us get right to the fact of the matter and fight if we’re fated to—I am Brynden, the Blackfish of House Tully, and I’m here to swear my sword to my niece’s daughter. If you’re not in the mood to fight me over that, a flagon of that hot fire wine you lot drink wouldn’t go amiss with me.”

Steffon choked a laugh out at that and extended his sword arm for the other man to clasp. This was the man who had knighted him when he was seventeen, a high honor for a Dornish boy to have one of the heroes of the Stepstones bid him protect the innocent in the wintry mud of the Riverlands. He’d not seen the Blackfish since that turn of the moon but he occasionally said a prayer for the man’s wellbeing and happiness. 

“You are well met, Lord Brynden, I am Ser Steffon Manwoody,” he said as the other man took his arm, grasping his elbow in the customary greeting of the Riverlands. In the flickering torchlight he did not hope that his new companion would remember his face but he himself saw beneath the white hair and lines of age to the handsome and hardy knight that had changed his life years ago. 

“Didn’t I bugger you once?” Steffon laughed again, letting go of Lord Brynden’s arm and stepping back towards the secret entrance of the holdfast. 

“No, you knighted me and  _ wouldn’t _ bugger me even after I got you roaring drunk. I think you mentioned that my face was as smooth as a girl’s and if you wanted girls you’d have had one by then.” The other man’s face twisted at that. 

“I trust you’ve not been foolish in the same way as you’ve aged, have you? It’s mighty tricky in this world wanting a man’s cock, you’re best to take it when offered before you’re too old to have a bit of fun with it.”

Steffon shook his head, a laugh still playing on his lips as he motioned for the guards to allow him and his new guest into the holdfast of Starktear. The place was chilly but for the furs hung on the walls keeping the cold at bay where they could. He supposed, thinking on the time since King Robb’s death and this man’s disappearance, that four safe walls were certainly a novelty for Brynden Tully of late. 

“Your niece seems to have grasped that concept well enough. According to some of the servants she rode her husband right into the bed they took here for a night. She has been in good company, but she will be glad to have her own blood at her elbow I think.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did you like your surprise, anyone and everyone? I hope you liked this chapter--and--and you should read the other in-progress Oberyn/Sansa stories and give them some kudos and comments and encouragement. Yes. :D
> 
> Let me know what you think of this chapter, though!!


	53. Ellaria, Osha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot is thickening! We are going a little bit away from Oberyn this chapter and focusing in on some newer faces and happenings. We have Ellaria and Osha here this chapter! Because of reasons!
> 
> Thank you all for reading and I hope you enjoy the chapter!
> 
> ...
> 
> >:D

 

Ellaria woke up in pain, rolling away from Sansa with a whimper that bordered on a small scream. Her body was certainly screaming at her and she tried to stand up only to shriek with the pain that shot through her when she did. She settled for sitting up, breathing in long and even strokes through the contractions. She put her hand on her belly, rubbing across it to try and calm the babe somehow. Sansa woke up slower, sitting up and asking what was wrong in a sleepy but scared voice. 

“Get Maester Myles, get him,” Ellaria managed to say, tears pricking at her eyes and make her voice scratchy. She had been having mild contractions all day but only on and off. Myles had examined her but ultimately agreed with her suspicion that they were only practice ones—they’d laughed, she remembered as tears spilled down her cheeks, that she ought to have had enough practice by now. 

Sansa got up from the bed, wrapping herself up in one of the velvet robes that Oberyn had left behind when he’d gone to Sunspear. Ellaria heard her summoning Tevira and telling the girl to get the chamber candles lit and a fire started, and to see that Ellaria was comfortable while Sansa herself fetched the maester. Left alone in the dark for a few minutes by herself, Ellaria prayed to the goddess that this child lived—it had been made in love, and grown in love, and she knew the goddess was too kind to cast darkness on such an abundance and variety of the affection and trust and mystery that was love.

She stayed seated as Tevira hurried around lighting candles, gasping and crying softly when the contractions came and went. When the girl was finished, a fire beginning to crackle in the hearth, she helped Ellaria to her feet so she might try walking through the pain—and Ellaria wished she hadn’t for the evidence she’d feared was there spread out on the linen sheets. 

Blood.

* * *

 

Osha did what was best for the little boy, mothering him as though he was her own. His parents were dead, as were his siblings for the most part—and it was safer for him to begin to forget that he was a little lord. She still called him her little lord, but played it as a joke to the Skagosi surrounding her. They were of both Norths—hers, and little Rickon’s, and though they gave her no quarter for being a mother alone neither did they doubt her ability as one. 

They ate what Rickon could get Shaggy Dog to share with them, and she traded what she could for other supplies, and it was when she was in the village that she heard of the smuggler ship there—and she would have been deaf to ignore the howls of a direwolf. She briefly thought of passing herself off as a warg, but quickly gave it up. They would ask questions when she refused to have Rickon far from her when she went into a ‘spell,’ and it would be the little lord’s eyes who clouded not hers. 

The smugglers wore brightly dyed beards and hair that reminded her of prancing Lord Theon’s silks when he’d been loyal to the Starks, and she was glad she spoke Andaii for her knowledge of Thenn and Halfshoe would have been useless on these. The captain was a woman of medium stature, her hair a glossy black that gleamed bloody red in the light of the torches that lit the docks the next morning as Osha urged Rickon and Shaggy Dog up the gangplank onto the boat. It was well before dawn and they were nearly too late to catch the tide but the sailors were skilled and within hours they were well away from Skagos. The island was but another of the dark gray clouds that hung low on the water in the distance, and the next adventure of her life below the Wall began. 

She’d found out that these people were bound for a place called Sunspear, that the Prince there had ordered dire wolves given to his lady wife—Osha knew then that the lady in question was either destined for a fate reserved only for kinkillers among her people or the lady was a Stark. The name “Sansa” had been bandied about, and when repeating the name to Rickon she was well-rewarded by his beaming smile and babbling tales of a sister who sang. 

So now they went to the home of his sister, if the gods were good. 

Osha, as the weeks dragged onwards and the winds grew warmer even as the rains grew heavier out on the Narrow Sea, hoped that this once the gods might  _ actually _ be good. Of late they had not been and she did not appreciate their spite—but knew better than to curse them. Free folk who cursed the gods soon found themselves without their protections, fodder for deadmen and wolves alike. 

Rickon—or Konnick as she told the smugglers and all others his name was—quickly made friends with the direwolf bitch that the smugglers had somehow gotten their hands on. The animal had been sold to them with pups still inside, and of the ten she whelped eight had survived. Osha’s charge was nearly wild himself as he communed with the animals but so long as he wasn’t startled from his reveries the ten direwolves on board did not so much as growl. Secretly Osha was proud of him, few wargs among any of the Free Folk tribes she’d known had been able to control so many creatures. Here the little lord had a small pack, the pups of which would grow up nearly tame as the sailors would pick them up and ruffle their fur. 

Their new friends skirted the isle of Dragonstone in the middle of the night, all the lights doused save those of a little skiff that they towed behind the galley—looking for all the world like a fisherman late in the night. When she asked the captain why this was, Osha learned that smugglers were not looked on kindly by the dour lord of that island, and that though it looked fair deserted they would not risk passing too close by it. 

After this Osha asked Rickon to draw her a map of where they were, and where they were going, if he could. The boy had pouted and whined that he couldn’t remember his lessons until Osha had gently reminded him that his maester would smile down on him from the heavens if he would try. Hard to see by flickering torchlight and a child’s hand she looked at the crude outline the eastern coast of Westeros, noting where the boy depicted Skagos, Dragonstone, and the boot-tip of Dorne. They were almost halfway there, it would seem, not much longer than a month of sailing. 

She erased the charcoal drawing before it could give their story away. She’d promised Bran to keep Rickon as safe as she could, and smugglers were not on her list of trusted associates. 

Even so, she submitted to allowing the women of the crew to dye her hair—rubbing a green paste the smelt of grass and chicken shit into her hair and then letting it cake into dryness before washing it out. Her hair turned the dark red of half-dried blood but she at least fit into the group better whenever they stopped on forgotten little pirate islands to restock on supplies, and she looked more the part of little Rickon’s mother. Osha wondered, catching curious glances from the captain sometimes, how well her story was believed and how much of it was written off as the easy lies of refugees from the wars raging on the continent. 

“When you’ve gotten that boy to some sort of safety what will you do then?” the captain, Immalde, asked one night as Osha watched Rickon giggle and screech as he clung to Shaggy Dog’s back. Osha didn’t take her eyes from him as she answered. 

“Make sure he stays safe. I’m his mother, and the last of his family as poor as I am.”

“But if you were free of him?” Osha thought long and hard on what this line of questions might mean. She’d never wanted a child, she wasn’t the child-raising kind, and though she did not begrudge Rickon she would not have been the first volunteering to rear him in her village had he been orphaned. 

“I know little of the South, but I’ve a strong back and that is useful most places once you’ve kneed a man in the balls.” Immalde laughed, not loud enough to distract Rickon or the crew, but it was an earnest and sincere laugh such as Osha hadn’t heard since she crossed the Wall.

“You’ve adapted well to the sea in these last weeks. I had wondered if you would travel on with us once you’ve delivered the boy to safety—if it is indeed safety you mean to find for him in Dorne. Of course, women are equal under the law and sun in Dorne, so you shouldn’t have to knee too many men to prove your mettle—and there are few men there who would defend a man who earned himself a beating.”

Osha smiled a little, turning away from watching Rickon to look up at the stars above them. Clear nights were getting rare—and she missed the incredible span of stars she’d seen in the North as a girl during the last Winter. Even here, with the sea reaching every horizon around them, there was something about the stars above and the snow below that magnified the awe she’d felt at the world. The gods well-loved the North, she’d thought then, though they had recently turned their faces from the world and she knew not why. 

“Aye, I can beat a man well enough. And cook simply, but there’s little else I offer. I was wed to my knives, cuckolding them for a man’s arms when I had need of them,” she pulled a wry grin then, “neither oft complained. I’m not meant for a life of easy peace though.” Her companion shot her a returning flash of a smile at this. 

“You will like Dorne, then. Should you wish to sail with me, though, tell them at Sunspear that you’ll foster your boy as the wolfherd for these,” she nodded towards Shaggy Dog, “beasts. Gods know they’ll need him, so you’re both guaranteed a bed and trencher regardless. My sister is a water witch in Planky Town, she might look after your boy if the Martells won’t take him.”

At these words Osha grew wary. Immalde and her crew had been kind and welcoming—Osha could pull her weight, and Rickon ably kept the wolves from biting the sailors, but such kindness she was unfamiliar with. Her own people did not even trust other Free Folk so readily or deeply. She did not plan on misusing that trust but neither did she understand it. The Dornishwoman next to her picked up on the tension and spoke again. 

“Dorne has as harsh a climate as the North, and we’ve learned to rely on each other and recognize strength comes in all forms. There is a bastard girl, highborn save her grandmother’s whoring, who might as well be wed to a knife,” a chuckle then, “she and her sisters are famous across Dorne for it. Given their mother’s heritage, it isn’t likely any of those girls shall be known for peace.”

“Only their mother?” the Northmen had placed so much high regard on who was whose son that Osha was a little amused at the direction of their conversation. Even women among the Free Folk were not equal across their many different tribes and communities. Immalde nodded, turning also from watching the wolves play on the deck to stare up at the stars. 

“Their mother is to be Lady of the Hellholt, and a deeper madness runs in her than in most Dornishmen. You don’t see it at first, of course, the Ullers have always kept it well-buttoned and she better than almost all of them. Everything else is secondary to their Uller blood.”

They whiled away the rest of the evening speaking of their youth, people they had loved. Rickon settled down in the forecastle surrounded by the direwolves, his autumn-red hair peeking up out of the pile of breathing, whimpering, twitching furs. Osha half-believed that soon enough Shaggy Dog and Snappy Dog—as the child had named it when informed he could not name it Mummy Dog—would have another litter of pups. She wondered, as Immalde left her to her own devices to hunt up some supper, how the animals would cope with the Dornish Summer which she’d been told was as hot as the North was icy. 

She half wondered how  _ she _ might cope but knew she would climb that tree when she came to it. Perhaps a life on the sea when Summer returned, able to swim when she felt ready to sweat herself to death, would be right for her then. Rickon would be grown into something resembling a man rather than a child, and as long as someone needed the direwolves calmed then he would have a place in life. As she went to the pile of wolves and boy, lifting Rickon and holding him close to her chest despite his ever-increasing weight, Osha knew that the wolves would always need to be calmed. It was in their blood—wild and hot, their packs knit tightly through even the harshest Winters that scattered them far from one another.

Perhaps going to Dorne, perhaps meeting and seeing if the prince’s Lady Sansa was indeed Rickon’s lost sister, would be one such reunion of wolves. Osha for one looked forward to seeing the Starks return to the North. Their peace had been felt for decades even above the Wall—and the only reason, she suspected, that the deadmen walked and spirits howled was the unrest that had ripped the Stark pack apart. She would not let it happen again—she’d fought one deadman and did not look forward to fighting another. The Starks had the blood of the Free Folk in them, and they would right things with the gods. 

They had to, she thought as she made her way to their cabin once more to lay the little lord in his bed, smoothing his curls from his forehead with a rare tender gesture that she rarely afforded herself or him. Something screamed in her that this boy had a mother—somehow, despite Lady Stark’s death, this boy still had a mother. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo how did everyone like this update? Please let me know!
> 
> ...don't kill me!


	54. Oberyn, Dany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another chapter where Oberyn needs a hug, so give him a mental hug now. Good? Good. 
> 
> Okay, so dragons live like...150-250 years when they aren't killing each other and such. Balerion lived to be like 200, so yeah. If Dany can get herself a throne she's guaranteed a dynasty if her heirs can control dragons. Which good luck to them...yeah. But more on that in later chapters! It will involve the Kingslayer, and that's all I can say :D
> 
> Also: Yes, I totes made the Ullers be a giant troop of ladies back in the day being all super crazy. Just you wait. 
> 
> Also: Oberyn is pretty superstitious/believing in spirits in my headcanon of him in this story. Like he might scoff at some things but it is patchy where he believes/disbelieves. I will let you chew on that. 
> 
> Now: Enjoy the chapter, and remember if you kill me then there aren't any more updates!

_ Father,  _

 

_ The babe has come early, and Uncle Doran asks that you send Maester Caleotte as fast as you can. He saved Grandmother’s life with you and Aunt Elia, and perhaps he can help Ysa with this babe. Please hurry, the maids have brought out such bloody sheets this hour and Ysa has screamed herself hoarse.  _

_ Maester Myles says if she exhausts herself through this night she will die. Please come home.  _

 

_ Nym _

* * *

 

It was when Dany heard screams of the people far below the tower the Tyroshi Archon had allowed her and Drogon use of that she realized her children had followed her. Thousands of miles and alone they had scented and scouted—staying far from the arrows and spears of men as they did so, feeding themselves and growing stronger. In honesty it had brought tears to her eyes, and a hearty laugh from her belly. This was how her ancestors had felt as they raised their dragons before men had forgotten how to hatch dragons.

_ Women would not have forgotten had it been left to women to remember it _ , she thought to herself as Rhaegal and Viserion purred and growled under the needling cleaning that Drogon showered on them. Hatching dragons took the same determination and love that birthing children did, she was sure of it. The same bravery and risk of self. She had walked into the flames without true proof that she would walk out of them—and she had been in such all-encompassing pain that she hadn’t cared. 

Soon enough Drogon had finished greeting his brothers and they all wormed closer to her—great puffs of hot air blasting her face as they cawed and whimpered for her attention. The screaming down in the streets was forgotten as she smoothed her open palms along each of their necks, murmuring in High Valyrian sweet words praising their courage and beauty. 

Most places she had stayed since they’d grown large had had to accommodate them—at least in Slaver’s Bay. In the Free Cities she had found marvelous dragon roosts—pocked pinnacles rising a hundred or more feet into the air and formed of dragonglass and marble. They were sturdy enough for these three dragons, now, and she reveled in it. Here they were high above the bustle of the city for the most part, and her dragons stayed calm despite the screams and yelling still sounding below. The Valyrians might have hated  _ each other _ but they had certainly loved and understood their dragons. It made her sad that she had only ‘birthed’ sons—looking at the three as they curled into a pile of scaly wings and wheezing purrs, Dany wished that she could breed more. 

_ It matters little, I suppose _ , she thought as she dozed off in the almost uncomfortable warmth that surrounded her from their breathing,  _ these three will last my heirs and their heirs after them. Then they must fend for themselves _ . Her face twisted a bit at the realization, a bit belated, that she would have to name an heir rather than bear one herself. She would have to choose from among the Martells, probably, or hunt down a book of lineages and spend an hour cooped alone with it hunting down lost cousins bearing traces of Targaryen blood. At least she  knew that the Martells were her distant kin. As she fell asleep, Dany hoped that Prince Quentyn wouldn’t mind that she couldn’t give him his own children. 

It was in the early morning hours that a servant crept in and gently called for her to wake, flinching when Drogon and Viserion both blinked awake as well, and informed her of the Archon’s most genteel and heartfelt wish for her to depart the city at dawn—there was rioting in the streets as people fled the center of the city in terror of dragonfire. It was well known what she had done to Astapor, and no one wanted her to bring any kind of dragonwroth to their fair city. Dany had smiled and sleepily replied that she would bend to the Archon’s dear wish and be gone before the sun came. 

Drogon had grown restless over the last few weeks and circled the tower lazily as she coaxed the others into flight—cooing that they would rest soon, but otherwise their journey was not done. Once the green and the cream were in the air she called Drogon back to her and climbed onto his back. She couldn’t know, as she took to the skies that morning, that she was watched from below on the streets. That shortly afterwards a man her age was being shaken awake by his desperate father and informed of a journey to the West through the Stepstones—and that that long-dreamed of journey to Westeros was about to begin. 

As she flew, breathing in long, deep breaths almost in time with Drogon, Dany instead reflected on words Ser Jorah had shared with her once. That dragons could never be tamed, they were neither pets nor children—and she did concede that he’d had the right of it in a manner of speaking. They were alike to pets in that they debated no laws, they built no intricate towers nor ships—but they were as near to the heart as children could be. She shared a piece of her soul with Drogon, and he had shared a piece of his with her. 

High above the wisps of cloud and feeling the sun rise at her back Dany felt, for the first time since she’d drawn them from the fires of her husband’s pyre, like all power lay at her fingertips. The crown of her father was not yet hers, and her armies sailed behind her—a distance of weeks by dragonwing but months by sail—but with Drogon and his brothers with her in the skies she was without doubt the mother of dragons. 

For the first time in more than a hundred years nights in Westeros would be pierced by dragonsong.

* * *

 

Oberyn was just finishing sparring with Obara when he caught sight of the dragons, a churning mix of horror and wonder in his gut stunning him for a moment—he almost wretched as his mind understood what he was seeing—before he was shouting for the captain of the palace guard and the men at arms. It was only just after the midday meal, and he thanked the gods for a clear afternoon and that they hadn’t come at evenfall. Dorne had weathered dragonfire in centuries past, but it was not without cost. So he ordered the scorpions and balistae to be manned in the towers, and sent word for the smallfolk to stay out of the streets both within and without of the curtain wall. 

His brother had wanted to bring the Targaryens back since the news of Elia’s death—of the murder of her tiny children—and now one had come, dragons in tow like a horror from bygone ages. A rider was immediately dispatched to the Water Gardens alerting his brother of the development, though he was sure that perhaps these creatures had been seen as they flew. The three monsters screeched and circled his city and Oberyn muttered a prayer to the Warrior for fortitude should Daenerys Targaryen decide to set Sunspear ablaze. Ellaria had whispered to him once the secret of the Ullers—one that was theirs alone and well-kept—the secret of who had manned the scorpion on the tower. The savior of Dorne. 

The Lady of House Uller had cut a dozen Reachmen’s throats and let the blood pour down the tallest corner tower. Meraxes had swung low to scent it—snapping black jaws at the bodies, and then swinging around once more to try again. Fire had been about to pour from the beast’s gullet onto Lady Qarla Uller and her three daughters—and then the youngest girl had cried out to loose the quarrel, and the aim of her sisters proved true. All but the child, Lady Synton, had perished as the dragon writhed.

It had been that child, all of ten, who had commanded the wounded Queen Rhaenys imprisoned and worse. 

There was no triumph of Uller madness here today, though, only the spark that was in the Martells. It was a tense hour before the dragons descended, and slowly enough that Oberyn knew this was a usual occurrence for little Queen Daenerys. She knew she had dragons well enough, she had little need to prove it these days. His innards still felt a little like water though as he and Obara watched the Targaryen woman slide from the back of the biggest of the three, turning and soothing them into a writing pile of scales and wings and fiery death.

The party he had with him was small—his daughter Obara, his cousin Manfrey, Maester Caleotte, and Ser Deziel Dalt. He dare not risk his brother’s children Arianne or Quentyn should the tiny woman walking towards him set her dragons on him. She might weather the fire, but Oberyn was quite sure that the Targaryen blood in his family was far too watered down to let himself or his kin withstand it. 

“I am Queen Daenerys Targaryen, and I seek Prince Doran of the House Martell, Lord of Sunspear and Prince of Dorne,” she said, allowing the presence of her dragons to speak the rest of her titles well enough. Doran’s informant, Varys, had kept them apprised of her string of titles. It grew impressive, but a little tedious in Oberyn’s experience. He preferred short monikers. His brother was The Indolent, his daughters The Sand Snakes, Ellaria The Viper’s Whore, Daemon the Bastard of Godsgrace, and Sansa his Bloody Princess. Such names let people know each other without giving away too much. This silver haired queen, his goodsister by law for Rhaegar had had the decency to never set aside his marriage to Elia, had much to learn. 

“You are well met, Your Grace,” he said, sketching a bow to her but failing to give her a formal one, “I am Prince Oberyn of the House Martell. In my brother’s absence I am his regent in all things. This is Lord Manfrey Martell of Ghost Hill, castellan of Sunspear, this Ser Deziel Dalt of Lemonwood, and my eldest daughter Obara Sand.” Daenerys gave a solemn nod—no curtsies for ladies raised by knights and green boys, Oberyn noted in the back of his mind. She would perhaps get on best with Obara and Obella, warlike as the girls were. Perhaps even his wandering little Sarella might make a good companion to this Targaryen woman. 

Given the fact that they made it out of that greeting without being roasted, Oberyn felt well enough that she could meet his niece—not his nephew yet, he wanted Doran to be present if possible for that. Doran knew more of the plan than Oberyn did, and could entice people into saying things they otherwise wouldn’t. There was something soulful in his brother’s gaze that Oberyn himself did not possess. 

“You must be weary from your journey. Let us see you to your rooms—and pray what do your dragons eat? I would keep our acquaintanceship warm but not at the expense of my smallfolk.”

“Bad men, good horses, cows, goats—they hunt, and they scent on the air rape and murder and eat those they find at those places.” Oberyn held his peace for a long moment then, offering his arm silently to the woman and leading her into the palace. 

“They will have to range far to find such crimes here in the essdorne, though I am sure that some cows and goats might be arranged for them.” She offered him a small smile, warm and hardly there but a smile nonetheless. As they walked she asked few questions, though the ones she did ask were direct and with little artifice. A good trait when among allies—less so when uncertainties abounded. And uncertainties greatly abounded here at the moment. Arianne, when they arrived at her solar, was as gracious as Sansa might have been—her courtesies perfectly in place for this would-be queen of Westeros. 

Dorne alone might not have the armies to cry havoc and let loose the dogs and gods alike—but Daenerys Targaryen came to them with thousands of blooded soldiers, huge stockpiles of supplies and gold, and most of all she came to them with dragons. And the question that had been on everyone’s mind the longest—were those dragons trained?—had been answered when she commanded them to sleep and bask in the sunlight of the main courtyard. 

“I do wonder, Prince Oberyn, Princess Arianne, when I might meet with Prince Doran? I would have thought him here, at his seat, given that he was the one who invited me here,” she said several hours later, after supper when they’d retired to Oberyn’s solar to drink wine and converse in private and relaxation. A ripple of impatience could be seen in her and Oberyn carefully set aside his goblet of losennta as he considered his answer. Though this was Doran’s arena he was not without skill himself. 

“My brother the Prince resides primarily in the Water Gardens after the death of our sister and the estrangement of his wife, Queen Daenerys. Notice has been sent to him, and he likely makes for Sunspear tomorrow. It is dangerous to cross the sands at night in haste, and he knows better than to break his neck in an effort to appear before you covered in sweat and smelling of horse.”

She laughed, light and airy and utterly false to Oberyn’s ear, batting away his effort at diplomacy. He glanced over at Arianne and saw she swilled her wine in her cup as she watched the other woman closely. The Targaryen woman was certainly brave coming to Sunspear alone, but it only meant that whatever tells her advisors had about her policies was hidden. No sworn knights to twitch their sword hands, no wizened maesters to narrow their eyes or purse their lips. She disguised herself with her solitude. 

“I would not mind, truly, if he did appear to me so. It would remind me of my home in the khalasar.”

“Your Grace,” Oberyn began gently, neatly, and as sweet as he could make himself sound whilst correcting her, “I admit I know little of your armies, their numbers and make-up, but I do know that you are khaleesi to less than fifty Dothraki. My brother would be the first to tell you this but ride into your battles having had your opponents underestimate you rather than the other way around. Mine own uncle Prince Lewyn, who served your father and brother ably unto his death, was sacrificed along with hundreds of Dornishmen at the Trident for such folly as to be told to rally ten thousand thousand.”

The woman’s face had darkened from gaiety to severity in the space of several breaths but Oberyn did not make motions to take back his words. He meant them—and was about to expound further on his point when a great and terrible pounding on the door sounded, Ser Deziel on the other side begging entrance. 

Thinking it some emergency with the dragons Oberyn leapt from his seat and threw the door open only to have a letter hastily shoved into his hands. It was a greatly late hour, near midnight, and he hoped that his brother hadn’t actually decided to make for Sunspear and gotten into some sort of trouble. He tore the ribbon from the parchment, unrolling it and reading the note. When he finished it the paper fell from his suddenly limp fingers and he couldn’t hear as his world tilted viciously.

Arianne and Manfrey helped him sit, though he couldn’t make sense of what they were saying—not when--and then through the fog he'd been thrown into—

“I will fly him there,” Queen Daenerys said, having picked up the note and read it. She was paler than ever, looking for all the world like a marble statue decorated with silver filigree threads for hair.  _She is the Stranger. Gods above, she has brought death here. Fire and blood_.

“You, Ser Dalt, send for this man, Caleotte—bring him to the courtyard where my dragons sleep, tell him he’s to deliver a babe,” then she turned her violet eyes on Oberyn then, “you said yourself it is several hours by night, and dangerous for even good riders. I saw the Water Gardens when I arrived today, I passed them by for the city and now you tell me the one I seek resides there. By dragonwing the journey will be minutes, less than an hour’s half, and serves both our purposes.” Still stunned, shocked and full of worry, Oberyn nodded. He could not summon words, for it seemed his family’s curse had finally come for him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how was that? Also there are going to be Three Heads of the Dragon and I will write a freaking giant one-shot for whoever correctly guesses the identities of ALL THREE. Hint: they shall ride dragons. Yes. 
> 
> Soo...yeah. Let me know what you think of the chapter!


	55. Caleotte, Jon, Ellaria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dany! Caleotte! Ellaria! Jon!
> 
> All sorts of fun people to hear from this chapter, I do hope you like it!

Caleotte had been roused from his sleep by a few of Prince Oberyn’s closest circle here at the small court of Sunspear and they brought tragic news to his ears. Ellaria Sand had been brought to the birthing bed weeks too soon and was having a poor time of it. He’d resisted commenting that the five to seven hour round-trip might mean his aid was for naught. Prince Oberyn was fair and even but he did not accept failures to act when there were chances to be had. Princess Loreza’s youngest child was certainly a betting man. It sent a chill down his spine that he had bet with Myles that with Princess Mellario and Ellaria Sand the curse experienced by Princess Loreza and her father Prince Garin had been broken. 

Myles had said that the results would not be seen until this next generation had their own children, because these things ran in families and Princess Elia had not had good luck with birthing her children. It was rumored widely in Dorne that Prince Rhaegar had not set her aside for new passion but instead sought the bed of another to spare his wife’s life. It had certainly comforted Caleotte during Robert’s Rebellion, but that comfort had turned hollow when that life was snuffed out. 

Now, though, the daughter of Lord Harmon Uller was victim to the curse of Prince Oberyn’s grandfather. Walking out of the palace towards the stables he mentally began preparing for what he might find—the poor woman might be dead by the time he arrived, and he would be entering a palace of grieving. He would have to be delicate with his haste, therefore, so as not to disrespect the struggle that had gone on there. When the Targaryen queen called out to him, then, to hold out his arms and stay still he was a little slow to respond. The dragon swept him up in its claws anyway, the grip bordering on painful but as far as he could tell quite secure. 

Needless to say Caleotte screamed in a manner most unbecoming of a person his age, his feet kicking uselessly in the air as the dragon quickly gained height and speed. The air, already brisk with low clouds, was freezing and he was glad—in a small, detached, and shocked part of his mind—that the dragon fairly radiated heat from every scale. From somewhere above him the woman’s voice called down to him in High Valyrian advising him to stop babbling in Andaii—her dragon did not understand Andaii and it made the beast nervous. 

Summoning what little of his wits were left after their take-off, Caleotte replied in scathing Valyrian that she had best train it out of that since she came to a country where only the highest educated knew the language. She laughed and replied that perhaps she would try but that this dragon, the black, was the most stubborn of her children and she’d never had a mother of her own to learn from. Swallowing back his worry—at the rate they were going he was sure it would be minutes before she set him down in the Water Gardens—he replied that she was about to be near a mother of prodigious ability. 

They both left it unsaid that Ellaria Sand might not live the night.

* * *

 

Jon scowled at the letter bearing the King’s seal—it was customary for the new Lord Commander of the Watch to travel to court, Maester Aemon told him, to disavow obligations, concerns, and loyalties to any lords below the Wall. The men of the Watch were therefore regularly declared separate and free of the laws of the lands they defended with their lives—and so their laws were their own, their actions their own, and no king could censure them. This of course was not true, as the king and lords alike commanded the Watch’s attention with what they sent North and what they withheld from the poor frozen bastards who safeguarded them. Jon’s mislike came from more than just the idea of leaving the Wall for such a frivolous reason, though. 

This royal family had been the death of his own—King Joffrey had killed Lord Eddard, had approved the actions of the man who murdered Robb and Lady Stark, had run Arya to the ground, and treated Sansa like a piece of meat. No matter Sansa’s treatment of him when they’d been children, just scant years ago, she had deserved more from those who had promised her happiness. He was glad that she’d been taken from them, though something nagged at the back of his mind that Dorne would not remain the peaceful paradise described by Maester Aemon and Sam. So as he drafted a letter in reply to King Tommen—in reality probably just Lord Tywin, for the current King was little older than a boy—he made a note to send someone South on pretext of another order. 

Maester Aemon was getting old, after all, and it would not do for Castle Black to be without a maester as the Winter grew colder. It showed the deterioration of the Watch that one had not been sent for already, but given the fact that Jon had the rest of his life to dedicate to it…he would see things made right. The other men, his brothers, had been hesitant of his plans but now followed him with enthusiasm. He made them proud to be members of the Watch, with the crimes or misfortunes that brought them here gradually forgotten as the months dragged on. There had been the tense time after his battle with Mance Rayder, of the brief visit of Stannis Baratheon, but those had not gotten him killed yet. Not gotten really anyone killed yet. 

He had given Stannis an ultimatum: respect his decisions as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch as though he, Stannis, were the king-enthroned in King’s Landing, or face the consequences of declaring war on the Shields of Men. The actions of the Watch were none of the King’s business, and the King’s business was none of the Watch’s. The man had tempted him with reclaiming Winterfell from the ‘craven’ Manderlys but Jon had been firm. Lord Manderly had ever been Lord Eddard’s man and if there had ever been a man behind the purpose of the Watch it had been Lord Eddard. If Stannis could not understand the subterfuge exercised by the Lord of Eels then perhaps Stannis ought to return to the Stormlands and do some studying. 

Stannis had sneered as he rode out south, making for gods knew where. Probably on a mission to chase the Boltons from one edge of the North to another, not understanding that the highborn of the North often knew it better than they knew their own names and that no fire magic would give an edge against the Northmen. 

Mance had been the bigger hurdle in Jon’s opinion. Jon had designated the Gift as land usable by the Free Folk in exchange for five years faithful service to the Watch—not as brothers, but assuredly among them. At first he had thought they would be moved to stab him in the night—had had nightmares of it, in fact, for weeks afterwards—but eventually the idea had caught on when his point was made for him by Alliser Thorne of all people. The Gift was land given to support the Watch, but the smallfolk had been killed or left or worse in recent years and without the smallfolk the brothers of the Watch starved and scraped and suffered more than their due. The Free Folk would pay for their use of the land with their service, purchasing it with blood if their men met death at the Wall, and five years would either last the the Winter or at least set the Watch up to survive a long one. 

It was left largely unsaid that the Free Folk had been fighting deadmen as well, and that their skills were needed badly. 

Over the last several months his brothers had begun calling their new companions their ‘bastard’ brothers—all of them Jon’s but only some of them born from the vows of the Watch while the others were born from the passion to live. No one truly minded, for the Free Folk understood bastards to be as free as they themselves were. No stuffy rules for bastards as there were for lords and ladies—and it was a good, constant reminder for the men who volunteered from Mance’s army that they were not bound to a life of guard-duty and ranging. 

They might be farmers of potatoes and sheep someday, or woodcutters or weavers—secure behind the great and ancient wall of ice. There were rough edges of course—the Thenns, he learned, had become cannibals to save their wood whilst still keeping their villages free from deadmen. It had taken a great deal of coaxing to get them to switch to pork, and a special ranging  _ south _ of the Wall to see the great and rolling forests available to them to burn their dead properly. Save that tribe, Jon tried to curb as little of their cultures as possible. 

It was when one side purposefully remained ignorant that caused the problems, he was sure of it. He wondered if he might have been able to show Ygritte that, had she lived, and if she would still have scoffed that he knew nothing. He remembered her accent, Estron Jeeloroc according to her half-brother Tormund, and how it had rolled on the oddly constructed Andaii witticisms that she would admonish him with. Her words of wisdom guided him though, and when he had time to pray he prayed that she had found peace with the gods she had worshiped. 

“Send this to King’s Landing in the morning, Sam,” he murmured as he finished rolling the parchment up and sealing it properly with the black seal of the Watch. His friend shuffled over and took it, tucking it into his sleeve to be given to Maester Aemon later. Jon drew in a deep breath then, looking up at Sam as he did so. 

“Sam I’ve also decided to send you South, to Oldtown to study as a maester. Aemon is hardy for a Targaryen, but he is old. I would have you learn enough to limp us through the Winter and then should we survive it you will return their to finish your chain. I would also have you go to Dorne with Gilly and give her into my sister’s family’s care. She and her child will be near you then, should you wish to see her, and I know that Sansa will see she is cared for.”

“You know all that from a single letter?” Sam’s tone was a bit disbelieving, but in that earnest and sweet way that did not patronize only express amazement. Jon wondered if all Reachmen were such good hearted souls but remembered what Sam’s own father had done to him. He remembered also the treachery of the Tyrell family and Mikken’s words that the most rotten-forged swords were flawed from the tang on down—but that fancy grips might hide those flaws and become a man’s downfall in combat. He did not look forward to standing before a Tyrell queen. 

“I don’t know how I know. It’s just a feeling. Lady Sansa was in a bad situation and those Dornishmen rescued her from it, and her letters sound happy in that off-hand kind of way that speaks of real pleasure with life. It is the most I had hoped for her since our father was murdered,” Jon replied.

* * *

 

Ellaria knew it wasn’t fair to Sansa, to everyone, to beg for Oberyn as the pains took her—she’d delivered Obella when he had been away, and he’d been gone for four months during her pregnancy with Dorea. It wasn’t new to have him absent, but she couldn’t think past the simple desire for his touch and scent as it felt like she was being stabbed and shredded. Sansa held her hand, wiping her hair from her face as it clung to the sweat there, and Tyene had given her a drought for some of the pain. Maester Myles was doing his level best to get the babe to turn, wincing when she shrieked. 

At one point she fainted, she was sure of it, and after that refused more of Tyene’s droughts. In four other pregnancies she had needed to listen to the maester at some point and she could not afford to fail now. When she was allowed to rest from the efforts of the maester to get the child turned correctly she had to roll awkwardly to allow the maids to change the sheets—if she birthed her daughter in such dirty conditions she was sure to be overcome with childbed fever. Myles joked, his voice strained and his face haggard, that they would not go through all this trouble only to have her die of something so preventable. 

Sansa prayed over her, tears sliding down her cheeks as she held Ellaria’s hand tightly—kissing her knuckles and telling the gods that they would  not take her away from them. Ellaria dearly wanted to comfort her young lover but had no idea if she would live or die after this night, and the pain was too great to focus too much on such words. Instead she haltingly asked if after all this fuss Sansa didn’t truly want to drink moon tea the rest of her days. The younger woman laughed, her eyes red and swollen from tears. 

When Maester Caleotte rushed into the room Ellaria felt a brief surge of strength. He had talked her through her daughter Elia’s birth, comforting her through her fear that perhaps she would end up like Princess Elia or Princess Loreza and be either half-killed by childbirth or be the mother of dead babes. Now though he spoke in a low voice with Myles before turning serious eyes on Ellaria and asking after how she felt. 

“This will be your last no matter the outcome, but please be strong,” he said as he laid his hands on her belly once more. She braced herself for the pain, hoping that perhaps his aged hands would move the babe as Myles had been unable to, and whimpered through it. She didn’t have the strength to be louder, and Sansa seemed to be clutching at her hand even tighter—the sounds of her room warped in her ears and her vision seemed to gray for an agonizing moment.  _ I’m going to faint _ . 

“Don’t—don’t tell Oberyn if you have to cut her out, don’t—don’t tell him,” she managed to say as Myles exclaimed that they’d made some progress. Caleotte was shaking his head at her words, his expression nearly warm as he looked up at her, asking her to finally start pushing on purpose. She clenched her eyes shut and followed his instructions, feeling like her heart was going to burst if not her head from a terrible headache. She tried to keep listening, pushing, and breathing all at the same time but eventually she found she couldn’t do all three and when Myles announced the head and shoulders delivered she stopped listening all together. 

Not long after that she slipped into blissful, painless unconsciousness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh nooooes! Don't worry is all I can say...just keep swimming, just keep swimming...etc. etc. etc. 
> 
> I want to humbly thank all of your for reading my story! OMG! I literally cannot believe almost anyone ships this let alone how many people have subscribed, bookmarked, kudo'd, and commented. I love you all to pieces! That being said, I'd also like to thank nkoleay95, username7239, and AidansQueen for writing some other in-progress fics to basically feed MY appetite for this ship between writing sessions. This of course doesn't mean I love the other writers less, it's just that those are one-shots and while beautiful are much more comfort food than anything else. I go and re-read everyone's stories when I'm bored at work and I love all 20-odd fics that are posted here :D
> 
> That being said--I hope you liked this chapter, and I hope you let me know what you think of it!


	56. Sansa, Oberyn, Dany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa! Oberyn! Dany!
> 
> Thank you everyone who is reading and reviewing and all that jazz, I love you to pieces! Don't hurt me for the chapter contained herein!

Maester Myles cleaned the babe with damp cloths, warmed by the fire so as not to startle the infant, and Sansa watched him from the corner of her eye as she tried to get Ellaria to rouse. The woman wasn’t truly conscious but her limbs were biddable, which according to Maester Caleotte was a good thing. If she froze up or grew cold then they would be in trouble, for it meant she’d been taken by shock. It was not long after that the old, fat maester was handing a bloody, pulpy  mess into a graceware bowl held by Tevira—and Sansa felt ill as he dropped the cord into the bowl on top of the rest of the mess. Catching her no doubt green face he offered her a tense smile. 

“Out of everything this night, Princess, that is the one thing we must be thankful for. It is the babe’s blanket whilst inside the mother, and should any piece of it be left behind it could mean death.”

Maester Myles walked to her side and urged her to take the now screaming infant—Ellaria’s fingers in her twitched briefly but no other movement save breathing came from the woman. Sansa reluctantly let go of Ellaria’s hand to hold the babe. She tried not to listen to the maesters as they spoke of how much blood her lover had lost, and the blood that still flowed too fast from her womb—though old Maester Caleotte called for Tyene to bring him some potion or other that would help now that the babe was delivered. Sansa tried not to cry, feeling like her heart was breaking—her breasts tingled and ached as the infant whimpered and squirmed in her arms. 

“She—she needs to feed, Princess, we must take her to the wet-nurse” and then Maester Myles was trying to take the child away from her after barely letting her get settled. She tried to get back on the bed next to Ellaria but he blocked her way. 

“Ellaria will wake soon—she will—” she said, her voice still shaking from the fear that Ellaria wouldn’t survive the birth. She shrugged a little, as much as she dared with the babe at her chest, as her bodice clung to her. The maester noticed, glancing down at where her breasts pressed on the nightshift and then back up, an awkward swallowing sound following soon after. The infant in Sansa’s arms squirmed and whimpered louder from within the swaddling she’d been put in. 

“Princess, your milk—Tevira!” Sansa glanced down at her front and gasped as she saw what the maester had seen, embarrassment chasing through her as she realized why her clothing felt so moist. Tevira was wiping her hands clean of blood across the room and hurried over at the call of her name. Maester Myles spoke in low words to her and then returned to helping the other maester with Ellaria. 

The babe in her arms wiggled closer to one of her teats as Tevira gently started to explain what was happening—that sometimes pregnant women heard a babe’s cry and the Mother told them to feed the child even if it was not their own. The Mother was bidding Sansa to do so now since Ellaria was being fought over by the Smith and the Stranger. She did not much like being reminded of that, but allowed her handmaiden to briefly hold the infant while she unlaced the top of her shift and sat down. 

“Now, she’ll want to grab on any which-why, Princess, but you must guide her to do so this way,” she numbly held the almost-daughter in her arms as Tevira instructed, gasping a little when the child’s hot, wet mouth latched on against her breast. Her tummy fluttered a little now and then as the tension bled out of her. She hardly listened to the instructions she was given by Gods knew who—Tevira, one or other of the maesters, the Mother herself—and only sank into prayers for Ellaria. 

Eventually they urged her up to sit close to Ellaria on the bed, declaring that the poor woman’s fate was in the hands of the Gods now and that Maester Myles was going to sleep for a few hours but that Caleotte would be close at hand. Tevira installed herself near the fire, keeping the room warm and bringing smooth heated stones from the hearth to tuck into the sheets so that Ellaria did not grow cold. 

Sansa’s arms ached after a while even though the babe slept peacefully she did not want to relinquish the child—the Mother had bid her care for it, and she had promised that she would if only Ellaria lived. She knew that deals made with the Gods must be honored or else their curses would be terrible and long-ranging indeed. She’d had enough of curses and the like and so even though she longed to set the child aside to curl gently against Ellaria she did not. Instead she wept softly, calming only when Ellaria’s daughter whimpered to be fed once more. 

It was in this state that Oberyn gently opened the door to their bedchamber, his clothing mussed and hair in utter disarray. While poor Maester Caleotte had been snatched up by a dragon, Oberyn had ridden it seemed—while the Dragon Queen sought an audience with Prince Doran. Sansa thought it incredibly rude but made no mention of her feelings to anyone—feelings that the Targaryen woman should have offered to return for Oberyn as well. But the Gods were paying too much attention to her small family this night, Sansa did not want to bring any more into these usually private rooms. 

“Is she—” he broke off, taking halting steps in a direction that would take him to Sansa’s side of the bed. 

“She lives, the maesters say her hopes rest with the mercy of the Gods—and I have been praying to the Mother,” Sansa said, flushing at how hollow the words sounded as their Ellaria lay on the bed almost as still as a statue. She was incredibly pale, which was alarming given her usually dark skin, and there were circles under her eyes even though they were closed. 

“Did they say what happened?” She shook her head, desperately wishing he would actually touch her shoulder or sit with them somehow. She badly needed someone to hold her. 

“Only that her time came early and that her body rushed ahead of itself, more than that you will need to ask them,” her voice was thready with exhaustion and that brought Oberyn into the present from his solemn stare at Ellaria. He walked to her side and leaned in to kiss her, holding her face between his warm hands and then spending a few breaths resting his forehead on hers. 

“And how do you fare?” Tears rushed into her eyes and fell hard and fast once more, her eyes aching from crying. Oberyn petted her hair, speaking words of comfort as he did and sliding to sit next to her. The babe in her arms fussed and whimpered at the motions and Sansa watched his eyes fall to the small face peeking out of the swaddling. She shifted her hold on the child so Oberyn could see better but made no motion to hand her over for now. Beside them Ellaria continued to breathe, nearly silent, her face slack. 

“And who is this?”

“Ellaria—she wanted—” Sansa couldn’t finish her sentence, feeling selfish and silly, as Oberyn touched a reverent finger on the infant’s chubby little cheek. 

“Visenya,” he said softly, bending to kiss the tender forehead dusted with short black hair. Sansa swallowed hard and looked up at him as he came away. Oberyn’s face was long and serious as she hadn’t seen before save when he’d given her the vial of poison before his combat with Gregor Clegane. She managed to croak out a soft question as to why—why would he name this girl after a Targaryen queen who brought death and destruction to Dorne in centuries past?

“Because,” he said as he reached over to take Ellaria’s hand, “Visenya was strong, the stronger of the sisters, but she did not defeat Dorne. This girl will not defeat Ellaria, I know it in my heart,” he murmured. If not for honoring her promise to the Mother, Sansa wished he would take his daughter and hold her—it was not little Visenya’s fault that the birth had been dangerous for Ellaria. With a shaking sigh Oberyn kissed Sansa once more and then slid off the bed to walk towards the door. 

“Tevira, have a bath sent for as well as a meal for Sansa and I. I will be in my solar speaking with Maester Caleotte if anyone needs me immediately. Sansa,” he glanced back at her, eyes slipping between her and Ellaria and back, “I will return soon.”

* * *

 

Oberyn drove his fist into the wood of his desk, swallowing a shout of pain that was more than just from his knuckles. Squeezing his eyes shut didn’t help as he only saw his loves there in the candlelight of their bedchamber—Ellaria deathly still and laid out straight in the bed, Sansa curled up at her side with babe in arms as she rested on the headboard of the bed. With a groan he tried to pull his emotions back into control by reminding himself of a few things—

Ellaria nor her child had died outright when he’d been absent. 

His paramour had had Sansa near at hand and had not felt alone through her pain, at least not completely. 

Maester Caleotte had saved Princess Loreza’s life when Oberyn himself had been born. He’d been determinedly backwards, he’d oft been told, and it was Caleotte’s firm hands that convinced him not to tear open his mother at birth. But such miracles did not come without cost and so he sent for the maester to see him, to speak of what had happened to his dear Ellaria. 

Sansa had not shown any interest in surrendering the child that had been born—though she’d been readily shocked at the name he’d chosen for Ellaria’s daughter. He well knew that his paramour had wanted to name the girl Sansa, and he would honor that wish if Ellaria followed the Stranger out of this life. But for now he chose to believe she would live, that her daughter had been born amidst fire and blood, and so chose the name to signify such. He made no announcements to his brother, though, of his arrival for he knew the man would be ensconced with Daenerys Targaryen. 

The maester entered the room on shuffling feet, obviously dead tired from the events of the night. Seeing him Oberyn’s shoulders felt weighted ten times over. He poured the man a cup of wine and then sat down to hear what had happened. The labor had begun early yesterday as Ellaria’s womb attempted to convince Visenya to turn properly, the bleeding coming from what Maester Caleotte thought to be a tear inside—not helped by Maester Myles’ several failed attempts to turn the babe, which meant that after Visenya was delivered the bleeding increased. 

Choosing not to pace or beat his chest in grief and fear, Oberyn picked at the broken skin on his knuckles—hissing softly when it ripped painfully. 

“Will she live?” He did not want to ask the question, nor receive an answer but he must know. 

“If we keep her warm through the night and tomorrow she will be alright I think. Your daughter Tyene and I managed to stop the bleeding with a styptic wash, but she should never carry a child again. There will be too much scarring for it to grow properly, and then a miscarriage from such a pregnancy could be deadly.” Oberyn nodded, knowing that Ellaria would drink moon tea dutifully enough—she had when she first took up with him, it was not a far stretch to do it again. 

“And her child?”

A faint smile was given to him then that had a hint of relief creeping into his heart. The day had not been kind to him so far—first dragons, now a near-miss with a death in the family.

“The infant thrives. She gave no further fuss during her birth once I got her to turn properly, and her cries went to the Mother’s heart and She allowed your daughter to nurse from Princess Sansa’s breast in her first hours. Your wife will not relinquish her hold on the girl, even for sleep.” He offered a small smile at that for he had seen it himself. She had looked exhausted but her arms around Visenya had been firm. Oberyn rubbed his hand across his forehead and down his face, grimacing at the dust that fell from his hair. He had half-killed the sand horse he’d ridden here—Caerul was fast but not meant for a ride against death across the night desert, he had too much Riverlander destrier in him, so Oberyn had chosen the fastest horse the stables had had instead. 

“Now I worry for Sansa, if my grandfather’s curse has come for me finally.” Maester Caleotte, just returning from the sideboard with the flagon of wine, chuckled and filled both his cup and Oberyn’s. 

“Do not, Prince Oberyn. I will stay close at hand for your wife and you must not beat yourself bloody for what has happened with Ellaria. Your children have never been stillborn, nor have their mothers miscarried this late in a pregnancy—and you’ve fathered more than twice the number of living children of your mother and grandfather both. Prince Garin’s wife died after bearing Prince Lewyn, and your mother’s pregnancies were all difficult--the same has not been true of your women.”

He gave a half-hearted nod at that and took a gulp of the wine. His knuckles ached from where he’d punched the table and he had half a mind to have Caleotte examine them but thought better of it. He knew when bones were broken, and these were not. Oberyn sighed and downed the rest of the cup of wine. What he needed was comforting and while the maester was apt at it he needed to let the man rest. 

“See that Tevira or one of her assistants has had the servants arrange a comfortable room for you nearby and get some sleep,” he murmured as he stood up and made for his bedchamber. The old man nodded, sipping once more at his wine before standing and following Oberyn into the other room. Sansa’s head jerked up from a half-doze as he stepped near the bed, her arms flexing gently to bring the babe closer to her. 

Oberyn sat down next to her, passing a hand over his daughter’s head as the infant rooted against Sansa’s breast. With a barely-there laugh Sansa helped the child find the right angle, though tears welled in her eyes as she did so. He kissed Sansa’s shoulder, watching Visenya feed as well as Ellaria breathe. 

“Is she hurting you?” Sansa looked up at him, her blink letting the tears fall down her cheeks. She shook her head and pressed her lips together. 

“It should be Ellaria who gets to feed her,” she finally said. Oberyn nodded in agreement but leaned in to kiss Sansa’s temple, then her cheek. 

“And she will, but for tonight she needs your help. I thank the Mother that she’s granted you this.” He wanted to curl up with her, hold her tightly and weep, but he did not. He could not. So instead he reached out and took Ellaria’s hand, ignoring how limp and cool her fingertips were though her palm was warm, put one arm around Sansa, and started to speak the seven supplications to the Gods. Sansa quickly fell into rhythm with him, her voice barely audible but still there in time with his own.

* * *

 

Dany’s meeting with Prince Doran was incredibly fruitful, she felt. He had jokingly told her that if she was anyone else it would all seem painfully slow and dull but that since his plan hinged on a Targaryen claimant coming to Westeros with an army at their back his own actions could quickly fall into place. She’d been kept from meeting Prince Quentyn by Prince Oberyn and Arianne, and now she was kept from meeting Prince Trystane as well—apparently he was on a visit to a place called Ghost Hill to visit with his grandfather’s family and would not return for a week at most. 

It had, however, been very late and though she’d managed to get several hours of her new ally’s time he had eventually called an end to their meeting. Dany had been led by a knight towards her own rooms, marveling at the structure of the palace as well as the Water Gardens themselves, and it was only when she heard praying in one of the rooms did she remember what pretext had brought her here—the lover of Prince Oberyn had been brought to the birthing bed nearly a month before her time. 

She caught the handmaiden who exited the room by the wrist and gently asked how things had fared. The girl, with dark almond eyes and tumbles of curly black hair coming down to her rump, had managed a curtsy before answering that Prince Oberyn’s paramour and child had both survived—and that now the Prince and his wife prayed over the woman. Dany thought it passing strange that the Prince had married, let alone that his wife prayed for his lover. Jorah had told her he’d been unwed, but then Jorah had been gone from Westeros for some years now. 

“What did they name the child?” She remembered when she had announced to a crowd of screaming Dothraki what her son would be named, and her sun and stars had been so happy—for a son from his dearest love, for her courage, for so many things now long gone and past. 

“I believe Prince Oberyn has named his daughter Visenya, who was neither killed by nor killed the Dornish. Now if it please my lady, I must fetch something for Maester Caleotte.”

Dany let the girl go, staring at the door that she’d come out of. She did not follow the Seven as these people did, in truth she wondered sometimes if there even were gods and goddesses and spirits divine, but she did take a moment to express hope that Prince Oberyn did not lose his lover. He had been so very full of life when she’d met him earlier today, she did not want to know what a man like him would become after such a blow.

As she once more allowed herself to be shown to her quarters, Dany reflected on what she knew about the ancient Visenya—one of Aegon’s sister-wives, mother of Maegor the Cruel, riding into battles on the back of Vhagar, and, as the handmaiden had said, the Targaryen queen who had survived but not vanquished the Dornish. It had been love and beauty, not brawn and might, that had brought the Dornish into the Seven Kingdoms and Dany had been named for the Targaryen who had accomplished it. 

Prince Doran wanted to accomplish it once again—but this time, Dorne would give as a wedding gift not one kingdom but six.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? That wasn't so bad! 
> 
> Thank you for reading, again, and I love it to pieces that so many of you are enjoying this story :D
> 
>  
> 
> Let me know what you think of this chapter, I would love to know!!


	57. Myrcella, Quentyn, Tyrion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who have been waiting and noted certain absences I give you: basically the rest of Dorne on the night of Visenya Sand's birth. Timeline is a bit goofy but Myrcella's takes place in the early early evening before Ellaria's labor gets going, Quentyn's takes place after Oberyn gets the letter from his daughter about Ellaria, and Tyrion's takes place throughout most of the day. Yes. 
> 
> Also remember that Tyrion is our favorite flawed narrator!
> 
> I do hope that you enjoy this chapter, it was very fun to write. Thank you all for reading!

It was just before sundown when Myrcella’s handmaidens and septa hurried into her bedchamber and started packing a small trunk of her things. She was about to leave for supper with Prince Doran and Trystane and in their haste they spared her no words for what they were doing. It was when she heard the creak of Prince Doran’s wheeled chair that she started to get an idea of what was happening and tears sprang to her eyes. She was being sent away, either home or to be killed. Her mother had warned her that those were her only avenues out of Dorne once she was there—it was the way the lives of princesses went, she’d crooned softly through her own teary eyes. 

“Princess, calm yourself. What disturbs you?” Prince Doran extended one hand out to her, his face solicitous as Trystane pushed him into the room. Behind them Ser Arys pouted and his petulant face comforted her more than Prince Doran’s concern, though she did briefly grasp the man’s hand as she made room for everyone to enter her chambers. 

“What is happening?” Her question was softly voiced but Prince Doran sighed deeply and his nod was resigned as he began speaking. 

“Princess Myrcella—my brother has sent news, a rider only arrived an hour ago, that Daenerys Targaryen has arrived in Sunspear with three dragons. This was at my urging and invitation, mind you, and now I must look to your safety. You and Trystane ride tonight for Ghost Hill to stay with my father’s family, the Tolands, and there you face a decision.”

She looked from him to Trystane. Her betrothed looked like when Elia and Obella had pushed him into the Pond of Frogs—upset and powerless. Myrcella wondered if he’d argued with his father. There was a tension in him that reminded her of when Mother would be forbidden something by the King. 

“A decision?” she retracted her hands to fold them prettily in front of her belly, her elbows sticking out behind her like tiny wings. Whatever this revelation was, she would be a perfect lady to hear it out. She wanted to be like Princess Sansa, or Mother, or Lady Nym. Poised, beautiful, and unerringly calm. 

“Yes, a decision. Daenerys will not celebrate your life nor your proximity. In Ghost Hill I would have you choose to leave our protection and sail for King’s Landing or choose to wed Trystane and remain with us. It is not right to ask one so young to choose sides but we must. Neither Oberyn nor I will keep you here against your will.” Prince Doran’s eyes grew warm then and his voice soft and sad. 

“You do understand that Princess Sansa was kept in King’s Landing against her will? That she was offered no choice to stay or go? It has brought her family, and yours, much ruin and she bears scars of the heart that few see. We would spare you those scars.”

Myrcella flicked her gaze over to Trystane, handsome and dark as the princes of the tales and songs her handmaidens would tell and sing for her as a girl. She’d never wanted songs of golden princes, rather the mysterious ones of Essos and Valyria and myths had been her escape. She’d wanted to wear a beautiful ivory gown inlaid with mother of pearl on the bodice until she shimmered bright like the High Septon’s diadem. 

“My uncle, Lord Tyrion, made agreement that I would not be wed until I was five and ten and Prince Trystane a man grown.”

“That is certainly a fact—but you are a woman flowered of late and allowed to make decisions of your own. I send my son with a writ of permission to marry, as well as one commandeering the fastest vessel available in the harbor at Ghost Haunt. Princess Myrcella it is the hardest thing to be asked, I know, but you need not rush.”

“Why not rush?” she cried out, “why? The Targaryen woman will know I am here, she will seek me out—burn all of you to kill me for my father’s blood!”

Trystane rushed to her side and wrapped her in his arms, holding her tightly and tucking her head into the crook of his neck. She hugged him back for a long moment, wondering if this was how Ellaria or Princess Sansa felt with Prince Oberyn when they needed comforting. She broke away from him just a bit, holding his sleeves but no longer curling into his body as she stood. 

“How will you prevent her from doing such things?”

“First she does not know you are here, and second by the time she does you will be safe either way. The servants here do not speak out of turn or whisper to those who would listen, you know this already,” she nodded hesitantly, fingers flexing in Trystane’s doublet. 

“We will not tell her of your presence here until you reach your mother in King’s Landing, if that is your choice. If you marry my son, though, you will be Princess Myrcella of House Martell and Targaryens know better than to cross Martells.” Trystane hugged her close once more and Myrcella let him, her heart an aching mess of nerves as the trunk of belongings was carried out of the chamber. 

She and Trystane shared a litter that bore them out of the Water Gardens, the curtains tightly drawn and tied against the night breezes and any who might look inside. At her side rode Ser Arys, who she was glad had finally returned from Sunspear on the errand that Princess Sansa had sent him on. He had gently told her it was to make amends for all that her brother Joff had asked him to do that was against his vows as a knight and Myrcella had not asked further. 

Her mother had kept her from Joff’s pernicious temper as best she could, but even then word reached her. She well remembered that terrifying time when Joff had ordered Lord Stark’s head removed. She leaned her head against Trystane’s shoulder and held his hand as the litterbearers made their way quickly across the sandy road to Ghost Hill. He had not been her mother’s choice for her, but he was good and sweet—he’d even taught her cyvasse, an immensely pleasurable but educating game. 

She tried to remember good things about King’s Landing but it had been two years since she’d come here and it seemed to her just another keep. Her mother had never liked allowing her outside of the keep, and so she did not know the city as someone who had lived there. The Water Gardens had been her home for great events in her life—when news of her brother’s death came to her, she’d been here. When news of Uncle Tyrion’s triumph at the Blackwater reached her she’d been here. Her first moon blood had come, and it had been Ellaria Sand who had taught her the ways of taking care of herself when it came. 

“Trys?” she was glad that they’d suspended their titles for the most part when they were alone, it had allowed her to feel that someday she would be part of his family when everything else had been so alien. The heat had been unbearable, the foods too spicy or too sweet or too tart, and the clothing had been horribly embarrassing to get used to at first despite all of Prince Oberyn’s girls wearing the same styles with ease. 

“Yes, Merry Myr?” Myrcella remembered when he’d kissed her several months ago, blushingly asking if she would let him and then turning bright as copper when she’d told him she liked it but could they maybe not kiss in front of his cousins next time? She remembered when he’d started calling her Merry Myr, telling her that she was like a ray of sunlight as she danced and laughed. 

“I don’t want to choose a side,” she said as softly as she could, clutching his arm tighter. He laid his cheek on her head and said nothing, letting her finish her thoughts as he often did. 

“But if I go to King’s Landing we’ll be on different sides. And I don’t want to be on different sides, even if it means Mother and Tomm won’t ever speak to me or love me again, I don’t want to be on different sides than you.”

“Your mother the queen will still love you, and your brother. They might be upset, but that’s to be expected. I would be upset if you left, but I wouldn’t—” he fidgeted a little and sighed, “I wouldn’t stop loving you.”

Myrcella froze and then disentangled herself from the pile they’d fallen into, looking at him in the sparse twilight still afforded them before it got truly dark. Trystane’s dark eyes were worried and he looked like he was probably biting the inside of his cheek. She reached up and cupped his face, sliding her fingers into his hair for a moment. 

“Trys?”

“Yes, Merry Myr?” his voice came out like a croak. 

“Will you marry me?”

* * *

 

Quentyn did not appreciate his sister’s smirking. After Uncle Oberyn had had to rush off to see Ellaria all his plans of meeting his betrothed had been ruined. Arianne had giggled like a child when she’d finished telling him that Queen Daenerys had slipped from Sunspear to the Water Gardens. He’d truly wanted to meet her, to know what sort of person she was, to know in fact what he was giving up by obeying his father’s wishes. Quentyn accepted his duty, but at the same time he was curious. 

He was curious of what this Targaryen woman was like—his aunt by law, given that her brother was married to Father’s sister, but much more a cousin by age. It was said she was as beautiful as starlight, but all Quentyn heard was that she was ethereal and belonged to no one. Here one moment, gone the next. 

Just as she’d been this evening. He’d seen more of Uncle Oberyn’s wife, Sansa, than he’d even glimpsed of his own betrothed. Sometimes he wished that he’d been left alone—but it was not to be. Quentyn knew as well as any Dornishman that peace amidst the sands of Dorne had been lost when the Butcher King had smiled upon the corpses of Princess Elia and her children, wrapped as they’d been in Lannister cloaks. 

“Don’t worry, brother, Uncle won’t steal her from you. He’d have quite enough on his plate as it is, but his focus will draw inward to his family tonight.”

“I worry for Princess Myrcella, and Trys, that perhaps Father didn’t see to it that they were sent away. Trys loves that girl, I guarantee he would stand before dragon fire to keep her safe.”

“And Father says that this woman has a soft heart for love and stalwart protectors—she will have little reason to roast Trys or his lady. It isn’t as though Robert Baratheon’s blood flows in her,” his sister snickered at this last. Even at four and twenty she still had moments of childlike glee, giddy with rumors and intrigue. Quentyn wished that he had the charisma for it but he had inherited his father’s taciturn manners. 

“You hush, those are still rumors according to Father’s words with the King. Just because they’re true doesn’t mean we ought to let anyone think we believe them,” he wagged a finger but put no real malice behind it. In truth it did not bother many Dornishmen to hear the rumors of Princess Myrcella’s parentage. The usual thought was good for the Queen to have the sense not to bring more blood-thirsty Baratheons into the world to beat whores and abandon bastards. 

They didn’t much like the woman’s father but she could hardly help that. When he’d been with the Yronwoods Quentyn had grown to understand Dorne better, in a way that had brought him closer to his Uncle Oberyn oddly enough, in that Dornishmen treated strangers as harshly and fairly as the desert did. The children should not be judged for their parent’s folly. Queen Cersei’s folly was different than her father’s, and if Trystane could ignore the rumors then Quentyn would support him as best he could. 

“Imagine, Quent, our family in the middle of every great House in less than a year. Trys married into the Lann—” she paused dramatically, winking, “Baratheons, Uncle Oberyn married into House Stark, you married into House Targaryen. What’s left? Tully? Tyrell? Greyjoy?”

“Uncle Oberyn will skin every squid he finds, given what they did to Sansa’s brothers and her home. The Tullys could either be diverted to House Arryn or House Stark. I suppose you could seduce Willas, though it’s a vicious rumor he wouldn’t be able to run,” he said, stealing food from her long-abandoned supper plate. 

“I shall miss having your head to help advise me through everything, Quentyn, if all this pays out. You’ll be king or prince or whatever title she bestows on you, and I’ll be here without your understanding of things.”

“Perhaps I will be like that Targaryen maester, sister, and you can write me letters asking for advice,” he said, taking her hand briefly and then letting it go as he flopped heavily into his chair once more. He had truly wanted to meet Daenerys, if only to see if the stories were true.

* * *

 

Tyrion paced around his solar, counting the steps much as he had when he’d been imprisoned for Joffrey’s murder. He felt a bit like he was being imprisoned, kept so that he might be fed to a monster for the glee of the masses. He was indeed a Lannister, and the Martells had always been creative people if he remembered from his history books. He cursed himself for not realizing that if he knew of the last Targaryen then there might feasibly be others. 

Of course the fact that the entire keep of Sunspear, palace though it outwardly claimed to be, had been brought to high alert had comforted him some. Though the Martells might have been treating with Daenerys Targaryen they had obviously not been fully prepared for her to arrive in Dorne with three dragons. Though now, he thought humorlessly as the sun drew down to the horizon, they had a bit of an appetizer to offer the silver haired woman. 

The knights that Prince Oberyn had sent, who had rounded up the party and stuffed them into Tyrion’s suite of chambers, assured him that this was for his own safety. Everyone could continue conducting their business happily and safely—though apart—and no tensions could arise from the situation. That didn’t meant that Tyrion had any confidence in those words but at least the Martells had taken the time to speak them. 

It was ironic that he was a little uncomfortable that he’d been offered—and accepted—bread and salt when presented it a week ago. Robb Stark had been offered, and had accepted, bread and salt from Lord Walder Frey. Robb Stark had also been murdered. 

All this of course did not tamp down the awe he’d felt as he watched the three dragons soar in the skies above Sunspear for the better part of the afternoon. Dragons were things of myth and legend and the tales told to children to make them believe in a bigger world than the one they would grow up in. Dragons were supposed to be dead—killed by the folly of men and the greed of others. 

But then the greed and folly of men had been the undoing of the Targaryens and yet a silver haired woman clung to the back of the biggest dragon—a black one with bloody red wings and swirling markings. It was not so great a leap to think that a Targaryen woman, no more than a slip of a girl when she’d done it, had brought about the return of the dragons with not one but three of the beasts. 

Tyrion had watched them settle into the courtyard and spent the day watching them. He spent the sunset watching them, and as the moon rose into the sky he stayed out on the balcony—drunk but his eyes fixed on them. Not many people had time to dislike a dwarf if he was on the back of a dragon, he mused as he remembered he’d wanted nothing more than a dragon of his own. It was through his dark humor that he saw Prince Oberyn and little Queen Daenerys hurry to the edge of the courtyard and the silver haired woman call out in Valyrian to the dragons. 

She was beautiful as she climbed once more onto the back of the black one, the others rising into the air around her in a swirl of wings and talons, and Tyrion had been caught in awe as he watched them. There was nothing better in this world than seeing a dragon, he thought as he settled once more into his seat. 

Minutes later though a commotion once more caught his attention as a maester, the fat one named Caeltot or something, hurried into the tiled courtyard now empty of dragons—and Tyrion’s yelp of surprise and fear was covered by the maester’s own as the dragon swooped down in silence. Tyrion swallowed thickly as he realized that these Martell snakes had just fed one of their own household to a dragon. On purpose. 

Suddenly Tyrion felt quite ill. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo how did we like that one? I know you've had enough scares in the last few chapters I felt like advancing the plots a bit to help you out :)
> 
> Let me know what you thought!! I love all of you to pieces for your kind words, and I love you to pieces if you put me back on the level with coloring in the lines :D


	58. Sansa, Dany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man I love all of your comments and theories and everything! Thank you so much for reading! Now, sorry for the long wait for an update, I'm sorry I'm sorry!! :(
> 
> Now, we have Sansa and Company as well as Doran & Dany having a little chit-chat. Enjoy!

Sansa woke up cradled in Oberyn’s arms. At some point during the night he had crawled in behind her, letting her rest back on his chest while his arms wrapped around hers. Visenya breathed softly against her, making a tiny noise when Sansa jostled her as she tried to get a bit more comfortable. The dawn light was watery and gray—it was likely going to rain today, having been dry for the last several. 

She gently untangled an arm from Oberyn’s and reached for Ellaria’s forehead to smooth back the curly hair there. The woman had not woken through the night but she was still warm and her chest steadily rose in even breaths. Tevira had stayed up and kept hot the stones that Maester Caleotte had ordered to surround the woman, though as she looked across to the hearth Sansa could see that her handmaiden was worn to the bone. 

“Tevira, send for some breakfast and Maester Caleotte—and then send in a replacement, you need to rest,” she called softly, her slightly raised voice disturbing Oberyn who woke with a startled flinch. Visenya woke too, her eyes popping open wide before settling down to nearly shut once more. Sansa smiled down at her, grinning when Oberyn kissed his fingertips and smoothed them along his daughter’s forehead. She reached for Ellaria’s hand and squeezed it as Oberyn then kissed her hair. 

“My darlings,” he murmured, shifting a little behind her, “I love you.” She leaned her head back and pressed her forehead to his neck, closing her eyes once more and just taking comfort from how he held her. How she’d lived without affection and touch whilst in King’s Landing she didn’t know—she’d starved, eager for any scrap. It had made Oberyn’s lie that much easier to swallow for the Lannisters. 

“Thank you for coming, I know you were busy.” He hummed, stroking Visenya’s cheek. 

“I needed to. I am glad it was not tragedy I met when I entered this room. Even if Ellaria succumbs, which she will not,” he paused for effect, “I will be here with her, with you. Family belongs together, especially through strife.”

“She will be fine, Prince Oberyn,” Maester Caleotte grumbled as he waddled into the room. Sansa made an effort to lift her head up to look at him. Visenya gurgled and cooed, her face turning towards Sansa and she smiled a little as she shifted a little in Oberyn’s arms to properly let the girl latch on. 

“And how is the little girl?” he asked as he went to Ellaria’s side, taking her hand and looking at her fingernails and wrist, glancing up at Sansa as he did so. 

“She seems to thrive. Her father has named her,” she said, distracted as the babe suckled. She could almost feel Oberyn’s grin. 

“Visenya, for she shall not be the end of my Ellaria.”

The maester chuckled, leaning in to listen to Ellaria’s breaths and then gently lifted her brow so that her eyelid slid open. Sansa wanted to shield Visenya from it, even though the girl wouldn’t remember these tense days. She would grow up as the youngest of Ellaria’s daughters, beloved and spoiled and would only know a story of how a dragon had brought the maester who delivered her and her mother from the arms of the Stranger. 

“Prince Oberyn, I must check that her canal has stayed properly clotted.”

“You need no permission from me to practice your medicine, maester,” her husband replied, his arms slipping to Sansa’s middle and hugging her close. Sansa gulped back her fearful questions—most of all, what would happen to her when her own daughter came? Her belly fluttered uncomfortably, almost—almost—she gasped softly, fear surging through her as something  _ moved _ . Oberyn chuckled briefly, his hand sliding to better cover where that movement had happened. 

“Do not fear my love, she merely quickens. For the first time?” She nodded, embarrassment making a blush rise on her cheeks. The movement— movement —continued despite her fervent wish that it would calm or stop. 

“It means the Smith has finished her face and form, from now on she only grows.”

“Your wife might have two in her, Prince Oberyn,” Maester Caleotte said as he moved to Ellaria’s middle. He pointed briefly at Sansa, “Princess you are five months gone?” Sansa nodded and he continued without another glance her way, “you look nearly as round as Ellaria did yesterday. Twins I would say, and I would say that you should send for another maester to look after those in Sunspear and retain me here.” 

They ate a small breakfast shortly after the maester left, and he had instructed that until Ellaria awoke she would need to be given honeyed milk to sustain her properly. Sansa did not want to put Visenya down but eventually Oberyn coaxed her to—she needed to take care of herself in order to be able to care for an infant, he reasoned with her as he coaxed her into letting him hold his daughter. 

Our daughter, Sansa thought to herself as she awkwardly sank into the copper tub, she is my daughter too. As the heat seeped into her limbs she watched Oberyn as he ably checked the swaddling that Maester Myles had wrapped the girl up in, fascinated with his ease at the task and feeling ready to burst with an unexplained euphoria. She was once again part of a family and for the first time she truly felt it.

Oberyn softly sang to them, holding Visenya close at his shoulder. It was all in Rhoynish but Sansa could follow along for the most part after the months she’d spent here in Dorne. The melody was trembling but lively, and the words were of stars and the sea, the stars being bits of sea spray that had floated out the darkness before the world had formed. Sansa sank lower into the hot water, watching him over the lip of the tub. 

She remembered a thought she’d had once—an idea to compose a song about her husband, so that people might know him long after he was dead and gone just as there were songs of the Age of Heroes and of men like Tywin Lannister.  _ Oberyn is a much better man than a great many of those _ , she thought to herself. 

“Queen Daenerys will be pleased I think,” she said, “though I can’t think what your ancestress Nymeria must think of you naming your youngest for one of Valyrian blood.” 

“She is proud, and that is enough,” he said, pausing in his song to look over at her, cuddling Visenya. His eyes shot to the side though, his attention centering on the bed where Ellaria stirred. Sansa sat up, sloshing water and shivering as the cool air hit her skin, her fingers curling tightly around the lip of the tub. 

“Ellaria? Are you awake my love?” he asked, his steps long as he crossed to Ellaria’s side. Sansa managed to get herself up and out of the bath without help, wrapping the drying cloth around her body as she too went to Ellaria, sitting down as gently as she could next to the woman. 

Ellaria was blinking awake, her eyes bleary and her voice still rasping from the screaming she’d done the night before. Oberyn reached one hand down to take hers as he sat next to her, the other keeping Visenya properly supported. Sansa took her lover’s other hand, pressing kisses to Ellaria’s fingers as she did so and ignoring the way her hair was dripping down her back. 

“Did she live?” the woman’s question was barely audible, worry clear in her face as she tried to sit up. 

“Yes, my darling. She thrives, despite coming early,” Oberyn replied, easing Visenya down to Ellaria’s chest. Sansa fought against the urge to weep as tears welled up in her companion’s eyes. She had been so worried that this would be a protracted recovery where they might wait days or weeks for their lively and lovely Ellaria to wake. 

“My little Sansa,” she cooed, letting Oberyn and Sansa help her sit up a little in the bed. Even though she winced at the pain she didn’t take her eyes from the infant. Looking up at Oberyn across the bed from her Sansa shared a short nod of agreement with him—they would tell Ellaria of the child’s name when she was better settled in a few hours. Though as Sansa looked on the scene with fondness she knew that Ellaria would call their daughter whatever she willed, damn Oberyn’s wishes to all of the seven hells.

* * *

 

Daenerys Targaryen had certainly learned to make her own entrances, Doran reflected as he sat with her watching the rain fall down over the ponds and terraces of the Water Gardens. She had arrived shortly after he’d decided he was finished with his breakfast, her hair hanging loose and unbraided around her shoulders and her gown obviously something borrowed from Sansa or Tyene’s wardrobe. Probably Tyene, who chose gowns to favor her pale skin and blonde hair. 

“You did not tell me your brother had married, Prince Doran,” she said softly after he received a short announcement from Maester Caleotte that Ellaria Sand and her daughter had survived the night. He wondered how she’d discovered the news but then again Oberyn might have informed her while they were still in Sunspear. 

“Yes, it was not yet finalized at our last correspondence. My brother lives life rather to the fullest and lets love take him where it will. His wife is a good woman, I hope you can meet her soon.” She offered a fluttering smile at his words and turned once more to look at the view. He’d had a servant bring her a warm cloak and, unlike Sansa who turned pale as porcelain when enshrouded in Martell orange, Daenerys lit up like gold. 

“You mentioned you did not have occasion to meet my son, Prince Quentyn, yesterday. I can send a raven asking him to come here, if you wish. I would hate to have you travel endlessly between the Water Gardens and Sunspear.” Another empty smile crossed her face as she agreed that that would indeed be pleasant. Their conversation of the night before filtered through his mind as the rain fell in a soft hush on the plants and trees of his beloved palace. 

His son and Princess Myrcella had only been gone for a few hours and when he heard the shrieks of dragons Doran had knew he’d done the right thing. Dragons moved faster than men could and it was better that she find no Baratheons in his home when she arrived. The servants had all been informed that they were not to mention Princess Myrcella to any visitors, and that Princess Sansa’s heritage as a Stark ought to also be kept private. 

It had all felt a little like a game of cyvasse as the pieces moved—her actions had returned to him a dragon but he had had to quickly move his ‘king’ away for dragons could not protect kings in the game. He wondered if she had ever played the game, or if perhaps it did not appeal to her.  _ It should appeal to all who dream of ruling much more than their chamberpot _ , he thought to himself as the silence settled in around them better. 

“Would you tell me of your sister? The reason for this alliance?”

“Elia?” He tried to remember her face in detail, catching impressions of a delicate face, small limbs, and skin quite pale for a woman of the essdorne. Mostly he recalled how she’d been able to make all of them laugh, even their mother who had known much sorrow in her life. 

“She was like the sun in spring. Warm and bright, and so little bitterness in her we sometimes jested that she’d walked from a fairy song. She loved your brother Rhaegar, and he her. Believe and know that, your grace,” he glanced at her before continuing, “he was of an age near what my daughter Arianne is now when he let that love run away with him, thinking to get more heirs from another woman rather than put my sister’s life in danger.”

“No one speaks of what he did. Those who I meet tell me tales of his great valor and deep grief, but when it comes to what happened and why…there is nothing.”

“It is not a tale I think they wish to be the bearers of for it is one of folly and bitterness. My brother has better practice with reciting it than I, but you must understand that I was a man grown when my siblings played here as children. But I will try to find words if you wish to hear,” he said with a sigh. It had torn both him and Oberyn apart inside and this young woman had been where they rested so many hopes for the last twenty odd years. It had been hard to articulate why it had seemed so important to have a Targaryen lead them into a formal rebellion against the Crown but in the last several years it had come to him. 

It was basic cyvasse—dragons supported by rabble were defended against elephants and catapults, and dragons had the option to convert pieces rather than destroy them. By throwing in his lot with that of Daenerys Targaryen he protected her cause but also furthered his own. 

“I would hear it. I only know of wolves and lions and stags—goring and gorging on the blood of my family, my dear father dead, my brother’s chest stoved in and his body dragged behind horses. His wife’s body fed to dogs.”

“It is not so bad as all that, but it is a dark tale. A woman was stolen in the night from her bed, and we will never know the truth of if she went willingly or not, and her brother and father went to beg her return. Lord Rickard Stark and his eldest son were murdered by their king—a king who demanded the deaths of the other Stark boys, and that of the lord who sheltered them. As usually happens when such demands are made and refused a war followed, and a boy younger than you slew the king rather than be ordered to kill his father.” And so he continued on with his story, making as little mention of Houses and alliances as possible. Loyalties muddied the truth so badly sometimes, and this young woman needed to hear truth. 

Not loyalty. He feared that she had been relying too heavily on loyalty pledged out of awe or duty rather than loyalty given out of love, and so she would be poorly equipped in these early days to understand Doran’s plans. Loyalty pledged out of awe had been the loyalty of Tywin Lannister and was the kind of loyalty that that man’s men gave him. When springing from love the gesture became much more intimate and powerful. Such ties were unbreakable even by death or loss or tragedy and very soon Daenerys, Queen of too many titles, would understand that better.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm way too tired tonight to get to responding to all of your lovely reviews so I will do that tomorrow morning. Please know that I love hearing from all of you--so let me know what you thought of this little chapter!


	59. Sansa, Tyrion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we have some Dany and Sansa, and then some Tyrion & Arianne. For funzies. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! I can't thank you enough, and I'm sorry that I've gotten behind with updates!
> 
>  
> 
> ALSO: I don't have time to reply to comments tonight, but I will get to them tomorrow!!!

Ellaria was still disoriented and weak, but the sleep she fell into was a natural one this time and so Sansa felt comfortable leaving her side to go out to wade in one of the pools with Oberyn’s younger daughters. They all worried for Ellaria, and she would comfort them for an afternoon. She was sure they’d heard the screams coming from Oberyn’s chambers and until now had been unable to go to them. It had fallen on Tyene and Nymeria to do so and she knew it was not right—a elder sister should never have to become mother of the youngest. 

“Is Ysa going to be okay?” Loreza said hesitantly, her hand snaking into Sansa’s as they walked. At her other side Dorea clung to her entire arm, her head tucked into Sansa’s waist. Behind them walked a few handmaidens and their guardswomen, while ahead of them walked Elia and Obella arm in arm. 

“She and your new sister are both going to be fine my darling,” she said softly. She looked forward to cooling her feet in the pool, and resting her mind. It had rained for much of the morning but now a bit of sun broke through the clouds and made the air humid with its warmth. Tevira’s assistant, Aelaenor, had told her that it might rain again but Sansa had needed out of that room and the lingering scent of blood.

At the corner of her view she saw a flicker of white hair and one of Tyene’s soft orange dresses—Queen Daenerys. Oberyn had told her of the woman in passing this morning. Older than her by a few years but sharing a story similar to Sansa’s in terms of loss and abuse, and with pride that was as dangerous as dragon fire. Sansa did not see the danger though as the other woman wept into her hands, her shoulders quaking as she struggled to keep silent. From her own experience, Sansa felt that the Targaryen woman was doing an admirable job—and save for her white hair among the greenery she would have stayed hidden.

Bidding Loreza and Dorea to stay with their guards Sansa approached her family’s new ally. She didn’t know what Doran had told the woman but she well knew how it felt to be given terrible news. 

“Your Grace?” her voice was incredibly soft, one of her hands resting on her belly and the other reaching out to the silver haired woman. All Sansa saw as Daenerys looked up was a stranger—The Stranger. All purple eyes and white hair, she was the daughter of the Stranger and the Maiden all in one. A bringer of new life and a harrower of broken things. This was the sister her sister Arya had craved Sansa to be, and Sansa knew she never would live up to that ideal. 

“I apologize,” Daenerys said, wiping at her eyes, “it is surely the flowers here. They grow so—”

“There is no need to apologize, your Grace, I do not begrudge you your grief. If you would be alone you may reside here, I will see that no one else disturbs you—but if you would have some company, come and watch the my husband’s children play.”

“You are Prince Doran’s wife? I thought that his children had all gone from the Water Gardens?” She seemed intent on drying her own tears, though, and so Sansa offered her arm as Margaery Tyrell had once offered hers to Sansa. Women needed friends and there were few enough women she’d met who understood that. 

“No, Prince Oberyn is my husband. Princess Mellario resides in Essos with her family, I have never met her. Please call me Sansa,” she left out her origins on purpose. If Oberyn or Doran had told Daenerys of her then she would know the name—if they had not she was not about to reveal her heritage to the mother of dragons of all people. 

Her informality took the Targaryen woman off guard and though she put her arm around Sansa’s she did not speak for a few paces. 

“You may call me Daenerys, in private settings,” her companion eventually said. She had a soft voice, and an accent that reminded Sansa a bit of Doran’s captain of the guard, Areo Hotah, more than it did Oberyn’s impressions of Essosi traders in his tales. Her mien reminded Sansa of Queen Cersei on the days of her best behavior before the court, even down to the vein of cool calculation that ran through it. 

“Daenerys then, for these are my family,” Sansa replied, breaking out of the trees to rejoin the guards and the younger girls once more. Dorea and Loreza clung a little tighter to the warrior handmaidens who ensured their safety. Elia and Obella waited a little way away, obviously in sight but not making any moves to draw attention to themselves. 

“Daenerys, these are my husband’s daughters. The littlest with the look of mischief on her face is Loreza—beside her is her companion in devilry, Dorea. Here also are Elia and Obella, the eldest daughters of his paramour Ellaria Sand. They are each on their way to being proper warriors,” she said, gesturing to each girl as she introduced them. They gave little curtsies but were otherwise silent. Sansa smiled that they were staying themselves—no affected manners that they didn’t already enjoy. 

“Girls, this is Queen Daenerys of the House Targaryen but when we are alone just as family you may call her Daenerys. May she join us in the pools or would you rather meet her later at supper?”

Loreza was the first to be intrepid and walk towards Daenerys, holding up a small hand for the woman to take hold of. 

“Are you going to get married to Ama too?”

“She means her father, Prince Oberyn,” Sansa said in explanation before leaning down a little to speak to Loreza, “no, but she might marry your cousin Prince Quentyn.” At this the little girl perked up immeasurably, and she started chattering away about her cousin as they resumed walking towards the pools. 

Elia helped Sansa sit down at the edge of one of them, quickly going to splash and yelp in the cold water. As the humidity climbed it was nice to soak her feet and legs in the water, Daenerys at her side watching the four girls play. A few courageous princefish nibbled at Sansa’s toes and she giggled as it tickled—she did not enjoy when whole swarms of them came at her for she felt about to be devoured but when it was just one or two she thought it was adorable. 

“What are these orange and white fish called?”

“Princefish, they were ordered caught by Prince Maron to fill the waters here. They’ve been called princefish for as long as there have been Martells I’m told.”

They stayed silent for another few moments, listening to the breezes in the trees and the low hum of a well ordered household in the middle of the day. Sansa wished that Ellaria were here, she was much better at striking and keeping conversation going—or even Margaery, despite the fact that Queen Daenerys would hate the notion of Margaery Tyrell-Baratheon. 

“Forgive me, I did not think Prince Oberyn’s wife would be so young,” Daenerys finally said, glancing over at Sansa and her swollen belly. 

“I do not think he did either, but he swept me up just the same. He is not reserved in his words or deeds, not like Prince Doran or Prince Quentyn are at least.”

“And got you with child,” her companion said, gesturing to Sansa’s belly.

“He has a gift with it. With the daughter born to him last night he has nine living children, and this,” she rubbed her hand across her stomach, “could be one or even two more.”

“So many! How does he keep up with their names?”

“Nicknames. Their differing ages. After that I do not know,” Sansa laughed along for it remained a mystery to herself sometimes. Especially given the times he was forced to be absent from the household with his duties in Sunspear. Her daughter pushed a little inside, still an alarming feeling despite knowing what it was. 

“I hope that you know you are welcome, Daenerys. Your words are Fire and Blood—and I know that those are what you bear with you. Dragons and warriors hardened in the expanses of Essos. I have seen terrible things done, and I know there are terrible things to come, but regardless of what you hear or see please believe that Oberyn and Doran are supporting you.”

“What might I hear that would cause me to doubt them?”

“I cannot say,” Sansa said, knowing it to be true, “only that there is a game played in Westeros, a game of thrones, and the only way to win it is to survive. My husband and his brother have laid plans for decades, and they have had to stay alive to do it. If Oberyn had had his way,” she paused, trying to remember his exact phrasing, “your family’s murderers would have been ‘delivered to Sunspear in chains or pieces.’”

It was not a conversation that she wanted the young children to chance overhearing but she needed Daenerys to understand this sooner than later. Her life depended on it in a way. 

“You are saying I will perhaps learn distasteful things of my new allies.”

“I am saying it is a complicated game, and that you must not let your visceral reactions rule you. You have met Oberyn—he is two and twenty years my senior. Do you think he sang me songs and courted me gently before our marriage? I married him two days after I met him, and it saved my life. I am telling you, Queen Daenerys of the House Targaryen, that if the game were not complicated then Oberyn and Doran would have an assortment of enemy skulls on display as one of them sat as Hand in King’s Landing and you would be queen there already. The butcher king thought this game was simple, as did his son—and they are both dead, your Grace.”

* * *

 

One of Prince Oberyn’s knights took it upon himself to teach them cyvasse as they waited. It was a curious game, easy enough to learn but incredibly difficult to be good at. Tyrion supposed it was something his father would have used as a parable of rulership in Westeros as he lost once more by betting heavily on his dragons. 

“You cannot rely on dragons alone, my lord,” the man said with a smirk as they reset the board once more, “you must support them with rabble pieces, three for every dragon, and you cannot keep thinking that they protect your king. Know this and you will be unbeatable at cyvasse, I promise it.”

Growling and grumbling Tyrion once more set up his pieces, strategically placing them in a manner he felt might make this particular game last longer than an hour. It seemed a game that could be won easily in a few strokes or one that would be won over time by the skin of his teeth—and so far had not found the recipe of moves that would produce either. Bronn laughed at him, though quickly turned to shushing his wife’s bastard son as the child whimpered and cried in his arms. 

_ A more well traveled infant I don’t know of. Perhaps Daenerys Stormborn went further before her first year but it would be a close competition _ _,_ Tyrion thought as he watched the man out of the corner of his eye. Bronn hadn’t found love or acceptance but the man didn’t seem to want either. He contented himself with whores and was good to his wife and otherwise asked little of the world. If only the Gods had such favors to bestow on Tyrion rather than the multitude of small horrors they heaped on him nearly every month it seemed. 

“Princess Arianne of the House Nymeros Martell,” one of their guards announced as the doors were opened. Tyrion’s mouth went a little dry at the sight of her—she was dark and lovely, her form short and compact, her curves gorgeous and eye-catching despite the demure silk dress she wore. Beside her stood a woman who looked disturbingly like Prince Oberyn and with a start Tyrion realized that this woman was Obara Sand, the eldest daughter of the man. He’d found out through gossip of the guards over the last day that Prince Oberyn’s eldest girls served as protectors of the rest of the family. When an actual guard might be off-putting for a diplomatic meeting one of the Sand Snakes would be present. 

They were as deadly as their father, he’d been told. 

“Lord Tyrion, would you dine with me? I realize my uncle was remiss in your entertainments when he saw to your safety, and I think before supper I ought to show you the markets of the shadow city. We Dornishmen are quite proud of our markets, which sing with spices and luxuries that are little seen outside of Essos.”

“If it please my lady, I shall change into a suitable outfit,” Tyrion started to reply when she waved it away like a whiff of perfume. 

“You are fine as you are. Tell me, did my uncle take you to see the Sept of Fhoserrio? She was a greatly admired Princess of Dorne and you should see the Sept that the Faith dedicated to her for services to the Seven. Come.” She was just short enough, and he was just tall enough, that she was able to awkwardly take his arm in a mockery of a formal escort. 

“I have not seen it, Princess Arianne, would you be so kind as to show it to me now?”

She reminded him of Sansa with her perfect manners but somehow she was also like Shae in her brazenness. She was no wilting flower as Sansa had been, no her strength was wild and unchecked—and when she plied him with too much wine over supper he hadn’t protested, and when she had had him loaded into a little palanquin with her he’d been a little too drunk to care—and her breasts had certainly swayed tantalizingly enough beneath her dress. They’d drunk more wine on the way into the city—dimly he’d wondered if she was going to feed him to a dragon as well, and that only little Tyrion Tanner might survive this bloodbath of Martell vengeance-via-dragon. 

It was only through his very nearly fall-down-drunk haze that Tyrion remembered her slipping a garish cloak around his shoulders, and how they’d both giggled at how it trailed behind him even then. There had been incense and smoke, garish golds and strangely formed statues that loomed over them, and then Tyrion had been a little too intoxicated to properly remember anything other than an earnest desire to congratulate the Martell woman for her high level of alcohol tolerance. 

The next morning Tyrion had awoken in a chamber not his own—perhaps they had put him into his own to make sure he didn’t vomit on anyone—next to a warm body that he certainly didn’t remember being on offer the last time he’d been sober. At first he’d had terror surge through him—he’d just somehow forced himself on the Red Viper’s niece, and his hours were numbered. But then he’d taken in more of the room—a short orange cloak draped over a chair, his clothes strewn between there and the bed, a woman’s under dress next to one of his socks. 

“I always knew Father would have me marry below my station, I am only glad that you came along and that he feels the need to keep up the ruse with the Crown just a little longer. There’s precious little for husbands but dregs these days since the war started. I think the second son of a Lord Paramount is much better than a kinslaying breaker of guest-right any day,” a groggy voice sounded behind him. Princess Arianne Martell was rubbing sleep from her eyes, the sheet over them just barely keeping her decent. 

“And you are absolutely awful in bed, never mind that you were drunk for tis little excuse for a man of your famed debauchery, Prince Tyrion Martell.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So first off: What happens in Sunspear stays in ...Sunspear...? Isn't it just Tyrion's way to get drunk and wake up married? Don't worry, he's going to have thoughts about that. 
> 
> Now--we don't get to see what Dany was crying about at the beginning of this chapter because of reasons. Doran told her some super sad things though that she didn't like. Luckily Sansa knows how that feels! And Sansa isn't revealing her heritage as a Stark because if Dany knows and isn't freaking out then great! Otherwise Sansa wants to: 1 not be surrounded by innocent children when that announcement is made to the dragon queen and 2 have Oberyn and others there with her. 
> 
> And Arianne isn't acting without Doran's permission--you'll see!


	60. Tyrion, Jaime, Brynden the Blackfish Tully

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it seems everyone liked Tyrion's little Vegas wedding! Here we have the beginnings of the aftermath, as well as a new face, and a much-too-ignored face that we haven't seen of late. I hope that you enjoy the story!!
> 
> Also as a side note please keep a few of your fellow readers in your thoughts as there seem to have been some family emergencies recently.

Princess Arianne wore one of his rings on her thumb, and one of her necklaces looped his neck he saw as he sobered up over breakfast. She’d laughed at him relentlessly as he wrapped himself up in a sheet and bumbled his way out of bed. The room smelled like sex, sex he couldn’t remember having, and the sheets were in a word ‘correctly’ soiled. His new wife was beautiful, of course, and full of mirth but he couldn’t understand it at all. 

They had a breakfast he was sure only appealed to him because of the hangover—fried eggs with a mixture of horrendously hot peppers and onions, with a few lurid purple potatoes cooked in and white cheese melted over the top of it. Any other day he would not have wanted to eat it but today he was deprived of drink and there wasn’t a better option. Princess Arianne ate it with relish, spearing choice potatoes from the platter and balancing bits of egg and pepper atop them. She was wearing one of the queer robes that these Dornishmen wore and Tyrion had a giggle to himself that they would soon be fitting him with such garments. Would he have to start having his chest shaved to fit in?

“Is the food not to your taste?”

“This whole morning is not to my taste, my lady,” he said as he chased some of the onions around the plate with his fork. With the spices that had cooked into them they were really quite tasty but they were proving elusive compared to the rest of the food. As he felt more awake he was getting grumpy. He’d thought that he was getting fed to a dragon last night and now he was—once more—a married man. The woman sitting opposite him stilled and there was a fearsome set to her jaw as he glanced up at her. 

“Do you think I wanted to marry anyone, let alone you?”

“I was given to understand you had a choice?” She laughed but there was no mirth in it. Tyrion was reminded, very uncomfortably, of a moment months and months ago with this woman’s uncle. These Martells were playing for keeps of late and moreover they were  angry . 

“Have you ever heard the legends about Queen Rhaenys?” he must have paled because she smirked and settled back into her chair, “what would have happened to you and those with you would have made those fade in the memory of Westeros like sand from an hour glass. My father presented it as a test—do we begin making our moves against the Lannisters and the Crown now or do we bide our time for the moment?”

“And you chose to bide your time, it seems. I do appreciate the continued use of my head, by the way despite how this complicates things.” At least Princess Arianne had chosen to marry him, in a reverse of the circumstances where he’d married Sansa. “I assume that I am to stay here in Sunspear for the time being?”

She grinned and nodded, reaching for a cup of spiced milk and taking a sip of it, and Tyrion felt very old in the face of her youthful face. This was a beautiful woman and he hardly knew her—he would be lucky indeed if she decided to let him know her. 

“And if I stay in Sunspear what am I to do here?”

“Write pleasant letters to your father, let him know that you won my hand instead of giving in to some of the more extravagant demands of my father and uncle, learn to play cyvasse, visit sighing houses and brothels.” Tyrion nodded, focusing on eating and trying to remember the exact chronology of events the previous evening. Dornish wines were always stronger than anticipated it seemed. He knew that he would be watched even closer now, and that all of his letters out of the city would be inspected for their contents. Even the whores would be reporting back to House Martell. 

“Well if I’m to spend my days here I had best start dressing for the weather. I hope that your family tailors and seamstresses have better tact than those of my sister. Hearing jokes of my height whilst getting fitted for clothing has been a bane for most of my life.”

There was a cool glance at him for that, though Princess Arianne’s smile stayed warm and jovial. It reminded him unpleasantly of court. 

“What a trial it must be to have your height the only thing held against you in the eyes of strangers.” With that she abandoned her breakfast and called for a servant to come and clear it away while another servant bustled in with a selection of dresses. A copper tub was also produced and several jugs full of steaming water were set beside it. Tyrion watched with interest at this, having been quite mystified by it when such baths were presented to him over the last several weeks. Alone in his rooms he’d taken it for some sort of comment on his height and size, but now the same sized tub was prepared for the Princess of Sunspear. 

Her words had chastised him though and so Tyrion soon left his own breakfast to be cleared away and gathered up his clothing. A handmaiden fetched several articles of his clothing from his other rooms and he dressed himself behind a screen as Princess Arianne washed. He caught glimpses of her between the latticed slats of the screen—standing in the tub and scrubbing her skin with a soapy brush, washing away the suds with short pours of the hot water. 

“Even as the Winter sets in you Dornish people conserve water it seems. I’d heard rumors.”

“Everything about Dorne is a rumor to those from north of the mountains. Not helped, I’m sure, by the Yronwoods and the Manwoodys playing tricks and games with foreigners. And what is with this ‘you Dornish people,’ my dearest? You’re as Dornish as can be now. It ought to be ‘we Dornish people,’ in future.” She was still cross with him, it seemed, and Tyrion didn’t want to closely examine why right now. His head was still pounding a little too hard to do much heavy thinking. Becoming the husband, and future consort, of the Princess of Dorne was intimidating enough for one morning. 

“Why  did you marry me, my lady?”

“Because my father wishes to test Queen Daenerys as much as he wanted to test me. It is a lesson in caution and tolerance to sleep in the beds of your enemies rather than bathe in their blood. Had your father been the one visiting Sunspear his head would be the centerpiece for Queen Daenerys’ table—without him the Lannisters are without a leader, like so many chickens without their heads. It all hinges in what you can do and what you’ve done—and Father thinks both of us need to understand that.”

Tyrion made a disgusted sound as the words resonated with him. This game was filled with bad people and worse motives—and damn it all he was good at it. 

“That sounds more like cyvasse than politics,” he grumbled, sitting once more at the table they’d breakfasted at. 

“Politics is more like cyvasse than you’d expect. I used to be quite poor at it,” she said as she wrapped herself up in a towel, stepping behind the screen to get dressed, “but you have to look at it like the pieces actually  are what they represent. It is a game where you have to be well-read and understand history more than you need to understand the rules.”

“Well then tell me why dragons cannot defend kings, for I truly cannot see why they can’t.”

“There is a game table over there in the corner, get some chairs for it and I will show you then.”

* * *

 

Cersei had had one request of him before she got into the carriage that would take her to Highgarden—that he go to Dorne to see Myrcella with his own eyes and write to her in his own hand that the girl was safe. To try, if possible, to take her away from the Martells and to give good reason why he could not if it was  not possible. He was no longer in the Kingsguard, having forsaken his vows to stand as his father’s heir, and he made his case to his father that before returning to the Rock he would visit Dorne to see his niece and perhaps find a wife from among the Martells or their bannermen—the Robert’s war had ably proved that keeping Dornishwomen hostage kept the Martells quiet and loyal.

It was the way that wars wrapped up, too, he thought as he boarded the ship that would take him to Sunspear. Marriages patching together the hasty alliances that were formed, some as reward and some as punishment. His sister’s marriage was a punishment despite the purported joy of all involved, though she’d wiggled her way into marrying Willas Tyrell instead of poor flamboyant Ser Loras. Cersei had convinced their father that it was a fool’s errand to believe that the Tyrell’s wouldn’t abandon the farce that Willas was impotent the minute they’d gotten a highborn girl married to Loras. And the man might well be impotent, Jaime knew, but a husband failing to properly visit Cersei’s bed hadn’t been a problem in the past. His sister might not be as smart as Tyrion or Father but she’d survived the brutality of Robert Baratheon. She knew how her end of the game was played better than a lot of women, he thought.

In a very tiny part of his heart, Jaime was glad that Joffrey had died—Joff who had grown like a noxious weed under Robert’s extravagances and neglect, growing into the man that Robert would have grown into without the stern eyes of Jon Arryn over him. He was not glad his son had died—no that was a wound that would always ache, always twinge every time he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror, knowing that Joff could have grown into a tall, golden man as Jaime himself had. Jaime was glad, though, that the cruelty his sister had known was not to be repeated on Margaery Tyrell or any other woman. Tommen was a good boy, quietly respectful of his grandfather and other advisers, and quite in love with his wife despite the differences in their age. 

Jaime was also glad, as the weeks wore on during the voyage to Sunspear, that by forsaking his oath and by making another to his sister he would be allowed to choose his own bride. After being robbed of so much during his life he would at least have this. Even if it burned him in ways he was unfamiliar with. He’d thought that by returning to Cersei’s side everything would be as it had been once—but it hadn’t. He’d thought then that the feelings he’d developed for Brienne of Tarth would fade away to nothing—but they hadn’t. Nothing was easy or the same and he appreciated the time alone to clear his head, to be far away from it all without any bossy blondes crowding his own thoughts from his brain. 

Besides, he thought on a rare sunny day when they finally reached the northeast Dornish coast and therefore only a week or so away from putting in at Sunspear, Tyrion would just be arriving in Sunspear himself and it would be good to see his brother once more. Perhaps Tyrion would teach him how to go whoring, a pastime he’d never needed before in his life because he’d always had Cersei—or even just the idea of her—to keep him sated. It brought a rare grin to his face and made Jaime forget some of the horrible things that had happened over the last three years.

* * *

Brynden rode with a small honor guard of knights sworn to House Manwoody led by Ser Myles Manwoody. They made good time through the now-muddy deserts along the northern coast of Dorne. It was not the same route Cat’s daughter had taken, according to the men, but it was faster. The Prince of Dorne had taken a meandering route because of his duties as Prince, and because once they were south of Starktear there was little need to be quick as they spirited young Sansa to safety. It made Brynden glad that she’d gotten herself sent to Dorne—Robb’s wedding had been a shocking revelation that Lannister gold was still gold to men of the Riverlands and even the North. 

The Dornish had never had much love for those outside of Dorne, even when he’d been a young man here fighting for the King against pirates and Blackfyres, and he knew in his bones that Dornishmen would take payment in sand before they would take a penny from House Lannister. After seeing the Boltons and Freys throw Cat’s body into the river—and following it downriver for a day before she got caught up in some rushes and he was able to bury her in the soft mud of the banks of the Green Fork. He’d decided, as he washed her hair clean of river muck and then laid her in the shallow grave, that he would set about freeing her daughter somehow and putting her up as Lady of Winterfell and Riverrun. Even if Edmure had survived that horrible night there was no certainty that he wouldn’t be made a puppet of the Freys, and so Sansa was the natural heir. 

She might have been forced to say things supporting the Lannisters, he’d thought as he quietly got himself some provisions and food from the local smallfolk, but Sansa was just a girl. She could be coaxed to say different things—things that actually supported her as her own person. Brynden had known as he walked across what seemed half of Westeros that she couldn’t have survived this long without preserving some ounce of her Stark heritage to keep her strong. When news had reached him, right before he’d crossed into the Crownlands, that she’d married Prince Oberyn of Dorne he’d barely kept himself from sagging down and weeping with relief. 

She couldn’t be loyal to the Lannisters if House Martell was willing to marry one of its sons to her—she couldn’t be.

Despite the danger he’d been in—Tullys were remarkably recognizable in most of Westeros because of their red hair and even his graying hair showed evidence of the once bright locks he’d sported—Brynden had switched directions and made for Dorne. He was well respected there in his own right and if he could just make it through the Dornish Marches he would then travel in safety. There was little, he reflected, that an aging knight could offer to a fifteen year old girl but she needed everything she could get. Even if she did not press her claim she would always be hunted by those who worried she—or her children—would return for the North. He’d been unable to give his life to safe Robb or Cat but he’d crawl through all seven hells before he failed Sansa Stark. 

“You are more than welcome in my house, Lord Tully, come—come!” They’d finally made it to Godsgrace after nearly two weeks of miserable riding along muddy roads in the pouring rain, and the Allyrions were ready to throw a grand feast for him. The town fairly steamed with the kilns of the pottermongers, the demand for graceware porcelain at an all-time high as peace settled fitfully over Westeros once more, and Brynden for the first time thought that perhaps he ought to shed his worn Tully armor for more practical Dornish leathers. The towns and villages they’d passed through over the last fortnight had shown no more inclination towards war than old toothless dogs—and so he might spend his years here in Dorne defending Sansa rather than leading her van guard. 

“It is certainly good to hear such things, Lord Allyrion,” Brynden said as he and the Manwoody knights dismounted and bowed to the Lord of Godsgrace. His hastily acquired squire posted the equally hastily sewn Tully colors at the entrance of the keep and fell in behind Brynden as they walked. The silver fish now twined with the black—uniting his infant cadet house once more with the main—and the dyes had proven hardy in the Dornish rain. 

“We also share your grief,” Lord Allyrion quietly said to him as they entered the great hall of the keep, the honor guard and Lord Allyrion’s guards falling behind them, “it is a fell current that brings a trout to the Greenblood. It seems though that all and sundry make their way to bend their knees to someone or other in Sunspear. A month past we hosted Lord Tyrion Lannister, and lately comes a letter sealed by Prince Doran to guard our livestock and young children from doom in the skies. I do hope your stomach for war remains strong, Lord Brynden, for Dorne has fasted for twenty years.”

“I came with little other aim, in truth. The life of quiet aging never sat well on my shoulders—and after burying my niece with my own hands I’ve a fire in my belly for revenge of the bloodiest kind,” Brynden said, his tone equally soft despite his words. “I actually had worried that Dorne planned on peace, given what I’ve seen so far.”

“The lords and ladies of the holdfasts have been notified that we should be ready, but there is little reason to alert travelers that Dorne does not sleep. We are awake, worry not. You will understand better than I soon enough, Brynden Tully.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how did you like hearing from Jaime?? His storyline is going to be an interesting one, and I'm curious as to what your thoughts on what it will be are--I think that someone at one point was quite close to guessing what he's going to end up doing. 
> 
> Also I'm sorry that my story keeps ragging on Tyrion, I'm in a mood where I'm sort of fed up with his "Poor Tyrion act" that he puts on on occasion. In other news I do hope that you liked Brynden! The main feeling I've gotten from your reactions in the past is that there's not near enough Brynden in the story, so he serves nicely to illustrate what is going on in the rest of Dorne. 
> 
> Last but not least: there are some amazing Oberyn/Sansa stories (some where it is only a background ship but beggars aren't choosers) coming out recently and I hope that you at least leave some kudos if you liked them. Remember that there are several other in-progress fics and that sometimes authors need a little commentin' kudo-givin' love to perk them up. 
> 
> Anyway--let me know what you thought of this chapter and I hope that you enjoyed it! If you didn't please let me know, I want to fix things if they're wrong!


	61. Dany, Tyrion, Oberyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long span between updates! Will get better about that soon! Thank you all so much for reading and commenting and just giving this story some love. I hope that you enjoy this particular update!! We have a bit of naughtiness towards the end for those who have been missing it. Yes.
> 
> This chapter is also dedicated to Winterkirk over on Tumblr because of banner shaped reasons that you can see (for now) on their tumblr as well as reblogged on my own. I will figure out how to put them on here soon :D

Dany walked the gardens alone after the afternoon spent with Prince Oberyn’s family. She had enjoyed watching the girls play and had tried to tamp down an envy she thought herself well-past—Princess Sansa was younger than her and had everything Dany had had once. A people united behind a warlike husband and his family—a babe in her belly that would grow up as strong and fierce as its father, and a shelter from the storms for both mother and child. Storms that she wasn’t sure she knew everything about just yet. 

Politics in Essos had been simple—the Free Cities alternately loved and hated one another, no alliance lasting for very long, and the cities of the Ghiscari were of a similar bent, so there was little more to do than deal with each city one by one. They squabbled so much they could not often see the larger view before them—the one that would allow them to fight her and her dragons. It was apparently much different here in Westeros—and not only Princess Sansa’s words rang in her ears but also those of Prince Doran. 

He’d told her of the rebellion—that Robert Baratheon had been her father’s kin, and still the man had risen against what he thought to be tyranny. Then had come the tragic turn when the King had decided to keep Princess Elia captive in the city rather than sending her away with his wife and children. Dany had thought that what happened to her husband and child was a burden to heavy to bear but these details—always hazy in Viserys’ memories of their homeland—had broken her heart. Her brother’s wife, dead twenty years now, had not had anyone like Ser Jorah to defend her against those who came for her life. 

She’d managed to keep her tears hidden until she made it out of Prince Doran’s solar and into the gardens, hiding as best she could away from what seemed to be the main pathways through the greenery. She’d never thought to weep for the war, somehow it had always been an annoyance—an interruption in her family’s rightful place as rulers of Westeros—but now it was made real. There had been madness in the blood of her father and fire in the heart of her brother and both had led her family to ruin and despair. Dany had become herself while she’d been the wife of a Dothraki Khal and thought it pained her she knew she must rid herself of such follies. 

Then there were the words of the redheaded princess—sweet and kind, with a certain haunted quality about her eyes as she asked if Dany would rather be left alone. It was a solicitation that Dany had received very little in her life, usually having to ask those with her to leave because she could not afford the weakness of their being able to read her face. The young woman was polished and refined, her manners impeccable as she entertained Dany for the afternoon. 

When the conversation had turned to politics Dany had been surprised at the warning tone the woman took. She knew that Westerosi people would not all be as she’d been told—and that what little she’d learned of politics would not begin to cover what she would need to know here. Here there were families, entire plots of politics resting on trust from generation to generation, and it had all been recently torn apart and put back together by war. There were worse times to start a conquest, though she couldn’t think of any at the moment, and from what Prince Doran had told her there was also no better time. 

So lost in her thoughts was she that Dany didn’t see the plain, forgettable looking man until she nearly collided with him. He was of a fair height, and his skin was of the same rich tone as Prince Doran and Prince Oberyn, and though she started to give him a brief curtsy he caught her elbows and stopped her. 

“A queen does not curtsy to a prince,” he said, keeping her steady. Prince Doran—Prince Oberyn—Princess Sansa—Princess Arianne. There were far too many of these brightly titled Martells for Dany’s liking. Perhaps this was why they’d never been stamped out by the first Targaryens in Westeros—kill one and three more took its place. 

“I apologize your Grace, I thought you saw me,” the man continued, letting his hands fall from her arms, “my father will be mad enough to clutch sand into crystal, but I had to meet you before you slipped away to some other far reach of the world. My name is Quentyn, son of Prince Doran, and I should dearly like to spend some time with you.”

Startled by this, Dany took a step away from him to better see him. He was plain, not handsome as Prince Oberyn was or as stoic and mature as Prince Doran, but she could see his lineage in his face. Her heart twinged for Daario then, remembering his beautiful smile and easy ways—though she knew he was not the man with whom to build a dynasty with. An empire, maybe, but not one that would last as Aegon the Conqueror’s had. 

“Quentyn—well, Prince Quentyn, I suppose,” she started, contemplating her next move. 

“I would prefer Quentyn,” he replied, pausing on purpose to draw out similar informality with her. An informality she would grant him—it wasn’t often she was treated both deferentially and as though she were a woman with blood in her veins. 

“Dany,” she replied, lifting her hands to take his elbow and beginning to walk once more. 

“Dany,” he murmured quietly, and she wondered if he knew much of her reputation and that that name had not been spoken to her by a stranger ever before, “has anyone taken time to tell you of the Water Gardens? I know that my father can get a bit too focused on his goals to see the people beneath them. Always a balance between justice and prudence, and that balance is not easy to find.”

Ser Barristan had spoken to her of justice and mercy once and she had scolded him for it—now though she was able to hear his words through those of Quentyn Martell. For a queen mercy was never just mercy—it was as the man beside her said. It was prudence.

“I cannot give you children, a witch told me no seed will take,” she said, watching as her companion blushed at the change in topic, “what do you say to that?”

“I would say do not listen to witches, and to see a maester. Because of my uncle’s misadventures we have two very skilled ones,” he paused, gathering his thoughts probably, “Maester Caleotte may be able to help you. I wanted to be a maester, or at least study to be one for a time, but other duties called and so I am of little use to you in this way.”

Dany felt her heart twist for this man, one her own age for once in her life. He was much like she had been before marrying into the Dothraki—willing and malleable, loyal to the cause but wanting escape from it.

“You are not without use. I would, regardless of children, require a friend and companion. One who does not have his own agenda in being my confidante. Do you think you can do that?”

* * *

 

Tyrion endured Bronn’s breathless chortling at his new situation as future-consort-to-the-Princess-of-Dorne. He also endured being fitted, as he’d thought he would be, for some actual Dornish clothing. It was probably the fourth time in as many years that he had had to completely change his manner of dress for the region he was in. The Dornish wore thick velvet robes during the Winters here, and sometimes in the Dornish North he was told that they even wore fur at times for the cold. One of his men, a knight from the Reach had winked at him and told him that the Dornish were not pleased with things such as ice and snow and that it was for this reason probably that they’d not aligned with House Stark during the rebellion of Robb Stark. 

Arianne remained a bit distant with him and Tyrion wanted to reach out to her, to get to know her, but kept back for fear of somehow angering her into feeding him to a dragon. He got the feeling that she would easily get away with such an ‘accident’ befalling him, and that she’d soon replace him in her bed with a handsome and tall Dornishman—perhaps a tragically handsome one from House Dayne or some other noble Dornish house. 

She had managed to teach him some of the strategies of cyvasse—how the rules turned, how the roll of the dice sometimes dictated a win or loss from the get-go, and finally the theory of why dragons could not defend kings. That had been the most interesting part to him, for he’d thought while he’d been Hand of the King that if they could somehow procure a dragon for the Red Keep then the smallfolk of King’s Landing and the Crownlands would never again think to defy the King. Arianne had explained that dragons are animals—like dogs and cats and birds—and would he use a dog or a cat or a bird to defend the King? No, they were without the reason of humans and could as easily turn to bite their master than obey him. 

There was also, she’d said primly as she beat him, the fact that the dragons of old had reflected the strength of their masters. A king using only dragons to defend his rule is a weak king indeed.

* * *

 

“Oberyn?” Oberyn looked up from his work to see Sansa closing the door of his solar behind her. She’d been juggling her time between caring for Ellaria and caring for all of Oberyn’s daughters and he had been quietly impressed with her. Sansa had a clear head on her shoulders, and now she flourished in the misty Winter of Dorne. He set his work aside and rolled his neck a little to loosen the tension there, watching as Sansa walked towards his desk and perched on the edge of it. 

Once she was settled he moved his chair to the side so he could bring one of her feet up into his lap, deftly removing her slipper and working his fingers against the knots he knew would only grow worse for her in the next several months. Her hair was loose, the gentlest waves flowing from the crown of her head to just brush the surface of the table—and so red, so, so red. She smiled down at him, sighing in relief as he saw to the aches his child brought to her. 

“I want to name our daughter after my brother’s wife,” she murmured, her blue eyes luminous in the candlelit gloom of the solar. Oberyn looked up into her eyes steadily, seeing the sadness mix with warm love in her eyes.

“You tread on dangerous ground, my darling, such things can bring pain to not only you.” Sansa nodded, rubbing both hands on her belly. He’d told her of his difficulties with Elia, the heartache he’d given not only himself but his innocent daughter. Still—

“Her name was Talisa of House Maegyr, in Volantis. They laughed away worries that the Volantenes would retaliate somehow, when I was in the king’s city," Sansa said.  


“They would have been right to worry,” he replied, “for little Queen Daenerys has secured the Volantene navy for her own ends so long as she avenges their lost daughter. But Talisa, eh? Talisa Nymeros Martell— Talisa the second of her name of the House Stark perhaps even. And if the maester is right and you’ve two girls instead of one?” Sansa had a hesitant grin for him at his words, biting her lip right after as he increased the pressure of his fingers on the arch of her foot. 

“More unwise names, husband, like Catelyn or Arya. Or happy ones, like Ellaria.” He leaned in and laid his cheek on her taut stomach. He did not want war to come to her doorstep—nor to his young daughters—but when the Targaryen woman’s armies arrived from over the sea they would go to war, with two untamed dragons and thousands of Dornishmen with the waters of the Rhoyne in their blood. Curses brought down by Dornishmen had an uncanny certainty of coming true—and after the disrespect and abuses Dorne had suffered these last twenty odd years, there were a fair number of curses spoken to the sands. 

“I like Ellaria, but Catelyn has a good ring to it too. They left this world together, your mother and goodsister, it could be fate that they reenter it the same way.” He let her foot down and brought the other up, dropping her slipper to the floor to join the first one. Ellaria had wanted this for him—to content himself still with his distractions, sate his waywardness, but to also find steadiness within that life. Sansa was a marvel to him, her smiles and laughter seeming to only belong to the Dornishmen he’d surrounded her with. If little Tyrion Lannister walked into their solar right now, he would perhaps see none of her trust—and how achingly beautiful it was to have earned her trust. 

“And I know it a fanciful wish, but if it is a son I would name him Oberyn,” she whispered, reaching forward and combing her fingers through his hair. His breath caught in his throat as he looked up at her, her small foot held delicately in his hands. Sansa looked determined and assured as she pressed her palm to his cheek, and it drove him wild despite how she’d humbled him with only a name. 

“Truly?” she nodded and withdrew her hand so she could balance better on the table once more. Her declaration floored Oberyn—he would have thought she would choose names from among her family, if she bore him a son. Names like Eddard or Robb, people who she would memorialize somehow through her child. He certainly would have let her. 

“Lord Oberyn, second of his name, of House Martell. Lord of Winterfell, Lord of Riverrun, and Warden of the North,” she recited, stating aloud what the future would bring them if her uncles Edmure and Brynden were not found—and with a year having passed since either of them were heard from it looked increasingly like Sansa’s only competition for the Riverlands would be her sickly Arryn cousin. Oberyn kissed her knee through the fabric of her dress, his hands steady as they worked the knots and aches out of her foot. 

“You may name our daughter whatever you wish my love. Though I would be honored also to be your child’s namesake, should you have a son.”

“We—we. It will be Ellaria’s child as well, just as Visenya is mine.” He smirked, happy and content. She still stumbled sometimes with how he carried on, and she’d never been prepared for a marriage to a Dornishman, but otherwise Sansa had adapted to this life quickly and easily. Oberyn loved her for it. Sansa smiled back at him through his introspection and walked herself back to lay out across his desk. She looked incredibly wanton that way and he had to work hard to keep his focus on rubbing her foot. 

“Sansa…”

“Mmm?” 

“I want to have you on this table…right now. Or carry you back to the bedchamber so Ellaria can watch, but perhaps after I’ve had you at least once for myself. It’s been weeks since I’ve had anyone—only a merchant from Pentos and he left me for one of my cousins.” She laughed then, the sound hearty and happy. 

“My poor prince,” she managed to say, her legs tightening together for a moment, “you could have come back to us for a day, spent time in the gardens or our bed.” She threw her arm over her eyes as she said it, still embarrassed by talk of lovemaking and the like. 

“I am indeed quite unfortunate,” he said, kissing her knee again and abandoning his task of relieving the aches of her foot in favor of kissing up the inside of her thigh. She giggled and squirmed but helped him hitch her gown up to her hips. Oh he’d missed this, holding her legs open and smelling the tangy scent of her cunt—she’d soaked her smallclothes, he realized with a groan of want. 

“Sansa—my darling girl, I need you,” he said, standing up so he could untie her smallclothes and better arrange her skirts. Sansa whimpered at his touch, looking decadent as her hair spread out over his papers and ledgers, her pale thighs blushing the barest pink from his attentions. “May I have you?” his question was soft, making no demands on her. 

“Is it…?” She bit her lips and didn’t finish her question.

“Dangerous? If I were a lackwit—yes. If you do not tell me if it feels good or bad—yes. It isn’t my cock that needs you, though, but my mouth,” he said as he sat once more and nipped at the tender skin of her inner thigh. Sansa’s hands reached for his and he gladly gave them over, twining their fingers together as he went to work. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter--let me know what you think!!


	62. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't begin to tell all of you how much I love and adore your support as I'm writing this. I just can't--but let me try!
> 
> OMG thank you all! Sorry, it's 3AM and I'm feeling maudlin about my readers. Love you all to bits!

Sansa sent an invitation to Queen Daenerys so they might share a luncheon. She then spent the hours of the morning preparing some of the food with some of her handmaidens, girls who were personally selected by Tevira to ensure the comfort and safety of Prince Oberyn’s family. Sansa had decided they would dine with Ellaria, since Master Caleotte had not yet deemed it safe for the woman to walk about. With this in mind, Sansa thought it would be a good idea to acquaint the Targaryen queen to some of the particularly Dornish mores of the Martells. 

Not that Prince Quentyn, from her brief meetings with him weeks ago, would necessarily partake of those customs it would be a good idea to slowly introduce those habits and the etiquette associated with them. She informed this notion with her own experience—Oberyn had not dumped all of Dornish culture on her all at once, instead explaining and teaching her as they’d traveled across what seemed half of Westeros on their way to Sunspear. Queen Daenerys would have to learn much quicker, though, for her army was likely only two months behind her. When they arrived, Oberyn had told her, the formal declaration for war would be sent to King’s Landing. 

“And what are you doing to our precious oranges, Princess?” Ser Daemon asked, looking up from the book he’d been reading while propped up near one of the windows. Sansa was just finishing grating the skin of a blood orange, now cutting it in half to squeeze some of the juice from it as well. Sweet cakes were one of the few things her mother had taught her to make, and she’d been told by the cooks that the recipe was more or less the same between lemons and oranges. 

“Cakes, for Ellaria and the Queen,” Sansa replied, quirking a smile up at her sworn sword. She knew he probably wished she spent her time in other places than kitchens and gardens, but for the most part he was affable enough each day. He was also sweet and pleasant with her, his jokes always mixed with gentle flirtation. Sansa was getting to the point that she could better accept his compliments without feeling awkward at not reciprocating in kind. 

“Cakes? May I have one?” Sansa nodded with another smile. 

“Of course, Ser Daemon, when they’ve cooked and cooled.”

Tyene helped her bring everything back to her bedchamber, setting out everything just as Queen Daenerys arrived. Sansa opened the door herself, slipping her shawl off to warm it by the fire as she crossed the room. Ellaria was awake and had her four eldest girls all curled around her as Nym held Visenya, stroking the babe’s cheek as the child slept. Ser Daemon sat apart from them near the doors to the balcony terrace, munching on a stolen orange cake—picking the slice of orange from the top of it and eating it with his fingers. 

Queen Daenerys wore a diaphanous gown of dark purple, her hair tied back in a style that Sansa had never seen before in Westerosi fashions. It looked complicated but there was a certain messiness that showed she’d done it herself. It always took time to teach handmaidens things like how to do hair and other tasks that otherwise seemed so very minimal. Tevira hadn’t gotten the hang of Sansa’s quirks and habits for several months. 

“Daenerys, please, do sit down here next to Ellaria,” Sansa gestured towards the seats she’d arranged next to Ellaria’s bedside. She walked back to the hearth to get her shawl and thought nothing of the expanse of skin that her gown revealed. It was the queen’s sharp and horrified gasp that brought Sansa whirling back around. 

“You—your—your—” Sansa winced at she realized that those in her circle had grown used to the scars on her back and that they were no longer so visibly shocked when she let them be seen. 

“Yes, they are scars from beatings. Not from Oberyn, or any other Dornishman. These are long healed, and I am far from those who gave them to me,” Sansa chose to say, picking up her shawl finally and wrapping the warm fabric around herself. She got the feeling, as she once again met the Targaryen woman’s eyes, that Queen Daenerys Targaryen was not accustomed to being so shocked. Or being so powerless in the face of someone’s suffering. So Sansa took the other woman’s hand and led her to sit down, knowing she would have to share more of her story with the other woman than she’d wanted to when she woke this morning. 

Ellaria had a sad smile from them and sat up straighter as Tevira started serving their lunch—beginning with raw white fish cured in lemon juice, garlic, and onions. Sansa smoothed her nerves by playing hostess, carrying the conversation and explaining some of the dishes—warning Daenerys about the batla and dragon peppers in some of them and their wicked heat. She refrained from teasing the woman too much, remembering when members of the Dornish host would tut consolingly to her on the road when something was too hot or spicy for her poor tongue. 

“Ysa, I’m going to get these devils on the way to their lessons. Maester Myles is having them observe fish being filleted,” Nymeria said as everyone finished their lemon and orange cakes. Obella and Dorea had each squealed in delight to see the circles of blood orange cooked onto the top of each plump cake, and Daenerys’ eyes had lit up with happiness as the children celebrated their Ysa Sansa. Ser Daemon was banished to the edge of the room for having tried to steal Tyene’s orange cake for himself after devouring two of his own in as many minutes. 

They watched the girls go, sipping at hot losennta in the brisk afternoon air that came in from the terrace. Sansa held Visenya now, peering down at the babe’s sleeping face. All the girl seemed to do was sleep and nurse—and then sleep some more. Maester Caleotte told them the girl was weak and tired from coming too soon to the world but that she would soon be as lively and loud as any other babe. She’d survived these first few days, Maester Myles had chipped in, and that was a good sign for a child who came early. 

“Sansa, who did that to you?” Daenerys’ voice brooked no argument this time and she did not elaborate on what she referred to. Beneath her tone was also a certain firmness—as though she’d spent the meal calculating between simply executing or roasting Sansa’s faceless attackers. Sansa looked down at her lap and summoned her courage. It came so much more easily to her these days than it had once upon a time in King’s Landing. The King’s city had sapped her strength day by day, and it was only now—after months and months of Dornish kindness and outrage—that she felt like a true daughter of the North, a true heir of House Stark. 

She still had not told the Tagaryen woman of her origins. It still wasn’t time, so she spoke carefully as she revealed what had been done to her. 

“Has either my husband or his brother told you about the Baratheons? Robert, and his son Joffrey?”

“I’ve heard he was cuckolded by his wife’s brother, and his heirs are only Lannister bastards. That now they squabble like dogs over my crown.” Sansa felt her face go slack and cold for the briefest of moments. How she wanted to slap whoever had taught Daenerys to talk in such ways. It sounded too close to how Joffrey had talked, his foul words falling from wormy lips. It upset Sansa more than she let anyone really ever know, when she heard sentiments and tones similar to the poisoned King Joffrey.

“Oberyn told you all that?” Thankfully Ellaria’s voice, sharp with shock, saved the moment for Sansa had no pleasant nothing to properly reply with. She was also glad that the question was not one she herself would have to voice. 

“No,” Daenerys seemed a bit taken aback, “no only what I heard in Essos about the Usurper and his family.” The incredulity of Ellaria had given Daenerys pause and Sansa was deeply glad for it, having finally organized her thoughts once more. 

“Oberyn and his men call them the Butcher King and the little butcher. Unfortunately not even sorcery can confirm who Joffrey’s fauther was. To Oberyn though, and now more than ever really, the two men have earned their titles.”

“You said Prince Oberyn saved your life?”

“From Joffrey, yes. He took me away from teh court, from beatings, whippings, and threats of worse. Too late to keep the scars from my back or out of my nightmares—but I am alive because of him, I know it in my heart.”

“The  king did this to you?” Sansa nodded after a moment. 

“He ordered his kingsguard and they obeyed. Very few men of that order disobey their king, even when that king is despicable,” she said, closing her eyes as she remembered Oberyn solemnly vowing one evening that someday those who harmed her and her family would face Dornish and Northron justice for what they’d done to her. 

The room was silent then, and in the corner of her eye she could see Ser Daemon had plucked a dagger out from somewhere on his person and was inspecting it in the light. He had promised her that he would give it to her should they encounter anyone who had ever raised a hand against her—and that he would teach her to slip it up under a man’s ribs if that was what she wished of him. He had a cooler head on his shoulders than Oberyn, but not by much. 

“It seems the kingsguard is not an order to be much trusted to understand the good of the people,” Daenerys said wearily, sinking back into her chair with a motion that would have been a slouch on any other woman. 

“There are good members of it, though I do say that with the pride of being Dornish,” Ellaria said, daintily picking apart the last of her orange cake and nibbling on it, “Oberyn’s own uncle was a member and remained a good man unto his death. The Stranger took a decent man, too, in the form of Ser Arthur Dayne who performed Prince Rhaegar’s orders to the last.”

Daenerys humored them with a wan smile, her eyes far away as she sipped on her spiced wine, and Sansa remembered tasting a sour Dornish red once before Oberyn and the other Dornishmen had arrived in King’s Landing. The wine beneath the honey and spices was still sour, only made tantalizing by the heat and the added ingredients. This was a land of truth, and truth could be as sour as wine. 

The next few days were cold and foggy, especially since Oberyn was making plans to return to Sunspear for a few days and Sansa did not want him gone. There was a certain dread in her ever since Queen Daenerys’ arrival that the woman, poorly educated about Westerosi history and clueless about current events, might roast Sansa once she found out about her Stark heritage. Oberyn had not shared this with the woman yet and Sansa herself was certainly not about to reveal it. 

But the time was coming soon where she should announce it—if Daenerys, who adored Oberyn’s children, was going to light Sansa and her family on fire then she wanted it done before her daughter was born. It would be too cruel to hold a living, squalling, beautiful babe in her arms knowing it was soon to die in flames. With these slightly morbid thoughts on her mind, Sansa went out walking—staying away from the water pools and the gardens and choosing instead to explore some of the courtyards and walkways that were contained in the massive complex of the Water Gardens. As always, Ser Daemon walked a respectful distance from her—ready to defend but otherwise protecting her privacy. Unlike in King’s Landing, her shadow was not there to spy or stifle. 

Sansa resisted screaming for him, then, when she was buffeted by the wind of dragonwings—the big black dragon, Drogon, landed just feet from her and started chirruping and purring. Sansa saw no rider and no signs of Queen Daenerys and so she gently called back to the dragon and tried to calm her galloping heart. It was akin in age to Lady—a barely grown pup far from home with only a few creatures that understood it. Sansa had been there, she thought as she walked slowly towards the animal. 

She could not have explained her compulsion, nor her near-deafness to the out of breath calls of Queen Daenerys and Ser Daemon. 

"Princess--Prin-- Sansa ," Daenery's voice was foggy through Sansa's ears as she slowly petted Drogon. She listened to him talk of flying, his joy at the slight weight on his back all the way here, and how he loved when soft hands pet his wings and when those same hands had fed him morsels. His orange red eyes watched her closely as she leaned her forehead against his neck as she had so many times with Lady what seemed a lifetime ago. In an instant she felt as one with him as she had with her direwolf before the King and Queen had ordered the animal killed—and she also felt arms drop away from her neck and looked down at herself curled up in the courtyard, her red hair splayed out like blood on the tiles of the courtyard, her swollen belly curving sharply away from her small body. Her arms felt heavy, as though she were enveloped of the heavy fur cloaks worn in Winterfell when she was a girl, but they felt strong despite that weight. 

The Targaryen woman was slowly approaching her, her eyes flicking between Sansa and...Sansa-- Drogon . Sansa screamed and all that came out was a dragon’s howl, and she screamed again at the sound of it. All of Arya and Bran and Rickon's stupid tales told them by Old Nan—all of those stupid tales about shifters and gods and Kings of Winter— warg, I'm a warg, I'm a monster . In terror Sansa urged Drogon to help her get away--it was too shocking, too terrifying, and she knew instinctively that she had to get away. The dragon spread his wings, flying up and away from Sunspear and circling the skies above that place for a few minutes before she grew afraid they would be attacked and she let her terror tell the dragon where they ought to head—somewhere they would be safe.

Her first thought was North, the vast expanses where she would be so instantly recognized and taken in as Lord Eddard’s daughter—there were no Targaryen queens in the North, no fears that her coming gamble with the Stranger wouldn’t pay out as Ellaria’s had, no worries of whether or not she was behaving as she should be or if her small dreams were as of yet too grand and would be taken from her. Her second thought after this was of her lovers—they would keep her safe somehow, they would not throw her out for this new ability. Her doubt was felt by the dragon she’d possessed and so she flew in aimless circles through the clouds far above the Dornish coast. 

The winds were soothing to both of them and helped calm her as they flew above the clouds—the sunlight warm on Drogon’s black wings, invigorating and comforting all at once. She would somehow explain to Oberyn what was happening, even though she barely understood it herself. It was supposed to be just a tale, a tale of why no one wanted to marry Starks and an explanation for the continuing smirch on their noble blood from mixing with wildling princes and princesses on occasion. Perhaps her husband would have read of wargs at some point during his life?

Sansa put the thought as far from her mind as possible, learning how her wings worked with the strong winds—scooping through wide turns and spirals she would never have attempted had she been riding the dragon the way Queen Daenerys did. All was well until the winds began growing stronger and buffeting against her in ways she wasn’t yet prepared for. When she felt Drogon’s flight stumble and stutter she gasped in terror as he started to fall—and at the moment he righted himself she was awakened from the trance she’d entered, staring up into the fear-stricken eyes of Oberyn and Ellaria.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I was being super clever in like...November...when this plotbit came to me, but you all found me out (doh!), so I hope you enjoy what I came up with!
> 
> This chapter was titled "Sansa freaking Oberyn out really badly" in my WIP folder by the by, and I have giggled over it more than I probably should have. That being said--let me know what you think of this chapter! I would love to hear from you!


	63. Samwell, Jaime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off I have been crazy busy with work and I do so sincerely apologize for dropping off the map. I hope that this chapter kind of makes up for it!
> 
> We have Sam Tarly up to bat first and then we've got a bit of Jaime to follow, enjoy!

Jon had told Sam to go to Oldtown, but to first leave Gilly with Jon’s sister’s family for safekeeping. There would be little time to look after Gilly’s needs while he completed his studies as a maester, and Princess Sansa would need someone to help her look after her child, Jon had reasoned with him as he saw him off. It did not sit right with Sam to leave Gilly once again with strange people while he was away but he had a duty to the Night’s Watch and to Gilly. There would be no money to pay for Gilly’s rooms and food for her and her son if he kept her near in Oldtown—and he would not have her do honest work for coin, because her face was innocent and sweet in the way that his father had liked to say attracted whoremasters like flies to honey. 

Sam had been here to Oldtown a few times as a boy, he reflected as they waited for supplies to be loaded once more onto the ship. Mostly the Tarlys had visited for tourneys hosted by the Hightowers or to peruse the book markets for the vast library that was the pride of the family. He’d briefly thought of disobeying Jon and leaving Gilly with his family and passing her son off as his bastard. It wouldn’t go over too terribly well for a wildling and her bastard but he would show himself a harder man than his father thought him to be—and his mother Melessa would adore a grandchild fathered by her favorite son. Gilly would ever be a servant, he knew, for even if he was not a brother of the Watch he was the eldest child of a bannerman of the Tyrells—but with the Tarlys she would have the dubious honor of being his paramour. 

“Have you ever been to this place, the Dorne?” Gilly said, coming up to his side as the sailors carried bales of fur and casks of pickled fish off the ship and returned bearing small kegs of flour and wine or open topped barrels of apples and potatoes. The Reach was certainly a gem of the Seven Kingdoms, he thought to himself watching the food be loaded aboard, providing good food late into the Winters that swept over the continent. Woody, bitter apples from the Reach were a boon to those elsewhere who had not planned properly, he’d grown up learning. Dorne was a different matter altogether. 

“It’s just Dorne, no one knows why. But no, my father’s uncle was the last man of our family to go there and even then it was the Dornish North not the parts where we’re going. My father’s uncle he—he lost a hand there for mistreating a woman. They don’t hold with the ways of the rest of us—us kneelers.” She twitched a smile at him briefly for the familiar term and wiped away the rain that fell on her forehead and cheeks. It had been as though they brought the cold and rain with them as they sailed south, and Sam was glad that Gilly would be as far from the evil of the North as she possibly could be while still remaining in Westeros. 

“So they act like the Free Folk then?” she asked as her son fussed for her attention. 

“Ehm,” Sam thought on what Jon had told him of his lover, Ygritte, and all she’d shared of her Jeeloroc culture before her death. Free Folk was a term that was still new to him but Gilly preferred it over wildling and so he used it to respect her and her wishes. She’d had so little of such treatment in her life, she deserved it from him without further question. Free Folk was a term used by all to differentiate themselves from those south of the Wall—though there were dozens if not hundreds of languages and cultures separating all of the Free Folk from one another. 

“A bit. The Dornish walk in the Light of the Seven, and have knights and castles but they let their daughters inherit provided they are the eldest. They even teach their daughters how to fight if they want to learn. There are,” Sam blushed deeply as he remembered the bawdy rumors that trickled out of Dorne by the mouths of traders and their ilk, “there are less rules about families and husbands and wives. And—and children.”

“You could marry me then, and live in a great stone house with me, if you were Dornish?” Pain shot through him at her words and hopeful glance—he would never see her again after his training was completed at the Citadel, for he would then be bound to the Wall as the maester of Castle Black. But there was no harm in pretending just a little longer. 

“If—if we were Dornish, yes. Yes. It would be very dusty with sand, though, I think.”

“What is dust?”

Just as so many of her questions did it threw Sam for a turn as he tried to articulate an answer for her. She’d lived in the never ending frozen wilds above the Wall, mud and icy rain her only companions between the harsh snows as the seasons turned every few years. The closest Gilly had perhaps come to ‘dust’ was the dirt and grime of unwashed women and babes at Craster’s Keep. 

“It—um, well, dust is like,” he searched for experiences she might be able to draw from, “dust is like the snow when it comes down in powder. But it tastes like dirt, if you eat it, not like the powdered snow that melts in your mouth. You have to sweep it from the floor and wipe it off your tables and—and yes.”

“And they’ve got dust in Dorne?”

“Yes, well, where it isn’t raining. Everywhere else starts to get snow, but in Dorne it just rains. At least that’s what everyone says, and all the books that I read about Dorne say. It’s probably all muddy right now though.”

“Oh,” Gilly said, but then she bumped his elbow with hers with an innocent little smile, “I wouldn’t mind dust I think. Just so me and the little one have some nice place that’s ours.” She left it unsaid that she still felt he should stay with her and her son, perhaps saving that argument for one last hurrah before he left her in Dorne. It was only a pretty fantasy, but Sam chose to keep it close for as long as he could. He might not live through the Winter, and he would cling to what happiness he could find. Jon had taught him, through his brooding and awkward shyness, that despite the pain the happiness was worth it. 

They left within the day, sailing out of the harbor just as the skies cleared and revealed a brilliantly white half moon. Gilly let Sam hold her boy while she went to sleep, and he sat on the desk for half the night telling the child stories of Dornish sorceries against the Targaryens and of the sorceries used to bring up the Wall in the North. At barely a year old, Gilly’s son wouldn’t remember the tales but hearing a voice comforted the lad. 

It was a long while before Sam realized he was being watched by a man a bit younger than himself, certainly not a man far past seven and ten if that. He hadn’t noticed him for the lad had skin dark like the night around them, with short curly hair that ended in a widow’s peak. He was slight and willowy, reminding Sam of Pyp and some of the green boys that hadn’t made it past the last battle with the wildlings. 

“You were supposed to leave the ship today but did not, Samwell Tarly,” the boy had a voice that was at once gruff and high. “My master and I have need of you but we knew you might make for Dorne with your woman and child.”

“Gi—Gilly’s not—we’re not—I’m not the father!” He was too taken aback to question how his arrival had been anticipated by complete strangers.

“You love her and she you,” the strange boy said as he unfolded from his seat and crossed the deck towards Sam. “In my father’s land that means she is your woman. Her babe lies in your arms and hears your favorite tales—again, my father would say that that babe is yours as much as hers. There are as many fathers and mothers in this world as the children in it need, provided everyone is brave enough.”

“I—”

“You make for Dorne, Samwell Tarly, and I will see that you meet only the best of Dornishmen along your way. My name is Alleras, and your family will be made most welcome in my father’s house.”

* * *

 

Jaime was eager to be off of the ship. He wanted solid land beneath him and a sword in his left hand. The ship was of too close quarters to practice his bad hand let alone show off what skills he had managed to hone once more with the help of his brother’s sellsword. He was yet leery of letting those around him know that he had been crippled. The Kingslayer was deprived, after more than twenty years, of the hand that had driven a sword through the back of a madman. Somewhere in some heaven, Ned Stark had quietly smirked at Jaime’s loss but perhaps not. 

The coast of Dorne was darkened with rain for much of the last weeks, but this day dawned with watery sunlight and only a brisk breeze greeted his face. The beard that Cersei had hated had grown back to an extent over the journey south and it kept his face warm now in the cold morning air. They would make landfall later in the day, according to the captain, and already there were signals from the harbormasters of Sunspear that they’d been sighted and that room was being made at the docks. He wondered if Tyrion would be allowed to meet him, or if the greeting would only be appropriate by the Prince of Sunspear. 

He admired the palace that sat proudly up above the harbor. It was not on some grand hill, as Casterly Rock was in his memories of Lannisport and his childhood home, but it would be fair-difficult to take the Martell keep from the harbor alone. People of similar minds had built this place and the grand castle of the Lannisters—and that shared mindset had been that much would have to be sacrificed by an attacker to take the hallowed and ancient seat of the House. 

Briefly he felt a pang for a future that had never been. 

Instead of the stinking city of King’s Landing—instead of the gaudy arches of the Targaryen-built Red Keep—his sister might have been an honored princess here. Never queen, which he knew would never have pleased Cersei, but she would have been lady of a beautiful palace and mother to brave children. A marriage to her might have prevented the bastards that Oberyn Martell had fathered, and even if it hadn’t there would never have been the sneaking shame of them that Robert had inflicted on Jaime’s dear sister. 

Jaime himself would have been married to that lovely tragic princess, Elia, and he knew in his bones that her two children would have been enough for him. They would have been named Joanna and Arthur instead of Rhaenys and Aegon, and Arthur’s hair would fall in golden curls rather than straight silvered blonde. Joanna, named for her grandmother, would have been nearing her twenties by now and would possess the sweetness and goodness of her Dornish mother—a great catch for a son of House Stark or House Tyrell. Arthur would grow up on stories of his namesake, the great Sword of the Morning, Arthur Dayne, and would have fostered somewhere in Dorne—perhaps with one of his uncles and then fallen in love with one of his cousins. 

Those dreams had died many times over since the days of their birth, though, and Jaime knew this better than most people in Westeros. There was time to perhaps patch some wounds though—Princess Arianne was young, yes, but he knew he would be able to marry her and carry on with his life. She was trained to rule Dorne, and his wedding gift to her would be to allow her to rule the Westerlands in his name if only she let him turn his attention to his sparring and whatever other pursuits were left to a crippled knight. It might be time to strike up a friendship with the crippled heir to Highgarden, Willas Tyrell, if only to speak with another man deprived by injury. 

And to see how Cersei got on with her new husband, he was not without some love in his heart for her even now. She was his blood, the same as Tyrion and their father, and he would not abandon her completely. Just put some occasional distance between them, to recover from the break between them and allow it to heal. 

From the forecastle of the ship Jaime brooded on all these thoughts as they sailed into the harbor and towards a space to lay anchor. There were trading ships from all over Essos and the south of Westeros that dotted the waters, their bright sails and pennants fluttering in the breezes. It felt more and more like his faint memories of Lannisport but somehow freer in a way that Jaime would be unable to explain to anyone if they had asked him. 

He nearly fell from the rope ladder but caught himself at the last, stepping heavily down into the rowboat rather than breaking an arm with a fall. There was a small group of people on the dock assembled in what seemed to be a courtly fashion, the flags bearing the sigils of House Martell and a few of the Houses sworn to them. It was a mess of orange and red, and he spotted two people standing in front of the group. Both were small—youths just out of childhood—and Jaime took them to be the younger sons of Prince Doran, the princes Quentyn and Trystane. 

Father had disliked this idea from the out and now Jaime wondered if it was because of the seemingly very young age of the Prince’s children. _Surely they are older than Joff and Tommen,_ he thought to himself as the boat was rowed closer and closer to the dock, _I had thought they were older._ If he’d been wrong then his estimation that Princess Arianne was young was more than an understatement—she would be akin in age to little Queen Margaery or Sansa Stark. It put a sick feeling in Jaime’s gut to think of wedding a girl so young. Tyrion was a good man, Jaime was not and in his opinion that made all the difference.

The party that awaited them disappeared from view as they docked and he dreaded the climb up the rope ladder—there had been little dignity in it in King’s Landing when they’d departed, but at least this was just a few feet rather than up the whole side of the ship. And he would be damned before children’s opinions of him added themselves to his worries. They might see him struggle but it would not be like letting Prince Oberyn see him struggle. Thank the gods for that. 

“Ser Jaime Lannister presents himself to you, Princess Arianne, as a humble visitor to your family’s holdings,” his squire announced as he managed to get himself standing straight after the climb. His heart was racing from the effort of doing so with one hand but Jaime breathed evenly to conceal his discomfort. 

“And I am glad to welcome him here,” a said young woman, thankfully not nearly so young as Jaime had begun to fear, “both as the heir to Casterly Rock as well as the brother of my husband.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm leaving for work right after posting this so I will get back to all of the comments and such when I get back. I have so much love and wonder for all you kind readers and I love--love love love--hearing from you about the story and how you like it and what things you think are going to happen next. So that being said, please feel free to let loose about the cliffhanger here XD
> 
> Again, much love, and thank you for reading--Hope to hear from you about this chapter!


	64. Oberyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back with Sansa! And Oberyn, being super upset because that's who he is.

Oberyn was cuddling with Ellaria and Visenya. His daughter was a wonder to him still, her eyes scrunched tight most of the time save for when she would blink sleepily after Ellaria or Sansa fed her. Nym teased him that he ought to be dulled to the newness of babies by now, this girl being the sixth he and Ellaria shared. Sansa came to the defense saying that Oberyn had never been married with a new babe under his roof—Ellaria had laughed until she moaned through a twinge of pain, clutching at her belly through the giggles. Sansa, who had been holding Visenya to her breast for the child’s supper, had grinned and blushed as everyone teasingly agreed with her and had a bit of fun at his expense.

They’d been having a lazy afternoon, a little lonely for Sansa had left them to go walking in the gardens, and Ellaria dozed lightly with Visenya on her chest as Oberyn rested his forehead on her arm. He was just falling asleep himself when running footsteps sounded through the quiet hallways, and a couple of low shouts as those footsteps drew to a stop outside of the chamber door. Soon followed frantic knocking and harsh whispering. 

Ellaria jerked out of her doze as Oberyn sat up and shared a silent look with him as he stood to snatch up one of Sansa’s daggers—she’d found the satchel that she’d packed her gifts in on the road recently and had shyly asked if he and Daemon would resume teaching her, and Oberyn was now thankful they were laying close at hand. Longsword is a bad option in close quarters, his father Olyvar’s words filtered through his mind as he walked, intimate situations require intimate weapons. 

“Prince Oberyn! Prince Oberyn,” Queen Daenerys’ voice was thready with some sort of desperation, and after her words a muttered curse in Dothraki as he came up to the door on soft feet. Just because there was alarm did not mean caution ought to be thrown out with the bathwater. Ellaria was gingerly making to sit up, to shout for guards should there be an attack. It was part of the design of the Water Gardens—so that the family was never far from help should something go wrong. The first Daenerys was not popular among the Dornish as the wedding to Prince Maron had neared—there were many veterans of the war with King Daeron I who remembered all too well those horrible few years under the Targaryens and their minions. They’d missed their princess and looked at Maron’s decisions as those akin to a usurper’s. There had been legitimate worries that Prince Maron and Princess Daenerys might be assassinated when she arrived to Dorne—and Prince Maron had badly wanted the peace bought with his elder sister’s wedding to last. 

Oberyn opened the chamber door a fraction, looking through the sliver at a slight crouch—eye level glances could result in lost eyes—and when Queen Daenerys’ face showed no artifice he opened the door wider and saw who stood behind her. The dagger in his hand clattered to the ground from nerveless fingers as he realized that behind the Targaryen woman stood his nephew Quentyn as well as Daemon. Sansa was in Daemon’s arms, utterly limp. 

“What happened?” he asked as he made room for Daemon to come in, swallowing back his worry and focusing on the matter at hand. He didn’t have the time to question his nephew’s presence, for now his attention had to be on Sansa. Everyone began speaking at once. 

“Princess Sansa was walking out in the greater gardens and she asked that I trail her for a time—”

“Drogon landed in front of her and—”

“She hasn’t woken since she fell—”

“Peace, peace, one at a time, please,” Oberyn said as Daemon lay Sansa down next to Ellaria on the bed. Her limbs were loose, no hint of consciousness coming from her slight form. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves and sat beside her, taking one of her hands as he did so. Without alerting the others explicitly he began to try waking her—tapping the back of her hand, jostling her arm, wiggling a finger into her ribs—and listened to what had happened. 

Queen Daenerys had been walking out with Quentyn—how the boy had avoided detection so far was something Oberyn knew he would be keen on finding out later—and above her had soared Drogon who did not quite trust the people that surrounded his ‘mother’ of late. Quite suddenly the dragon had scented something on the wind and dove towards another part of the gardens that was not far off. Queen Daenerys had only barely caught up with the dragon when she saw he’d found Sansa. 

Here the accounts differed—Daemon swore that Sansa had been cornered and at the mercy of the dragon, the great beast growling and screeching at her before she fainted dead away at the creature’s feet. Queen Daenerys said that Sansa had been slowly petting Drogon while the dragon chirruped and purred. It was when his wife had put her arms around the dragon’s neck that she had fallen down in a faint, and only after this did the dragon show any signs of alarm. 

None of them had stayed to see if the beast had returned to the Water Gardens or if he had simply flown away for the day.

“Send for Maester Caleotte,” he finally said in a hollow voice after hearing everything out, “for regardless of what happened with the dragon, Sansa will not wake and that is not a good sign for a woman carrying her first child.” Quentyn was the first to move to follow his order and was soon followed by Queen Daenerys. Daemon remained behind holding Visenya, stricken that he had allowed this to happen to Sansa somehow. Any other day Oberyn might have found words of comfort for his lover, but he could not spare them now. Ellaria had shifted so she could curl up at Sansa’s side, one of the young woman’s hands tucked between Ellaria’s and curled up under her chin as well—as though Sansa’s entire arm was a favored toy. 

“What do you think it is, Oberyn?” his paramour’s voice was soft, barely audible as they listened to Sansa breathe. 

“I do not want to think on it, at least not until the maester has a chance to examine her,” he said, watching Sansa’s face intently. She showed no pain or distress, the only thing indicating anything was amiss being her eyes rolled back in her head so only the whites showed. Ellaria combed her fingers through Sansa’s hair, a worried gesture of comfort that Oberyn knew would serve to keep only Ellaria calm—Sansa was currently beyond such things. 

Though he’d said he did not want to think on it, Oberyn’s thoughts raced. Women pregnant for the first time occasionally fell into a convulsing coma, unable to be woken, eventually writhing or wasting to death and taking their child with them. It was not a regular occurrence, and a good maester could spot the warning signs and take preventative measures long before a problem arose. No one had said that Sansa had spasmed or seized as or after she’d fallen, and he clung to that small hope. 

Maester Caleotte urged him away from the bed when he arrived, leaving him to pace like a caged animal as the man picked up Sansa’s hand and began looking at the usual signs of life—a healthy color to the nails, indicating proper lung function; a strong, even pulse in the wrist; a healthy width of the pupil and iris. All seemed to be in order except that Maester Caleotte could not seem to get a glimpse of Sansa’s eye. 

“What do you find?”

“A very strange occurrence, my prince,” the man said, nearly muttering rather than answering properly, “it seems from the shape presented that the princess stares straight forward beneath her lids—but her eyes are whitened beyond even the Crone’s blindness. I have never seen anything…” he trailed off then, straightening and taking a step away from the bedside. 

“It is not the seizing sickness?”

“Unless she has convulsed, I do not think so. I may have read something, but then,” Caleotte paused and glanced at where Queen Daenerys sat with Quentyn, “have you told your royal guest about how you came by your wife?”

The Targaryen woman twitched as though burned and straightened in her seat, speaking quickly. 

“Princess Sansa told me that she was a plaything of the Usurper Joffrey Baratheon.”

Oberyn watched as Caleotte hesitated, gathering together all of his remarkable wells of tranquility and diplomatic words, and realized what Sansa had left out of her tales of King’s Landing—and that somehow it gave the maester an idea of what was ailing his wife. 

“What does Sansa’s heritage give you clues towards, Maester Caleotte?”

“An old book on the history of her family, much of it passed over as myth and legend by the maesters of Oldtown. Such things have been thought to exist only in the Age of Heroes, surviving now as children’s stories or the ramblings of the elderly,” and here the maester hesitated before taking a deep breath and continuing, “I suspect Princess Sansa’s spirit may have fled with that of the dragon. Only the Gods know which might return to her head, or when—I remember little else, it has been many years. I apologize Prince Oberyn.”

His voice was low, not wanting to sound confident as he pronounced such a thing over a member of the Martell family. Oberyn grimaced and walked past him, sitting with Sansa and taking her hand. Ellaria glanced up at him, the worry in her eyes as real as his own. Despite the armies that were converging on Dorne—and the mantle of war that his people were shrugging over their shoulders—he wanted to be let alone by intrigue and tragedy for a time. He needed time with this new aspect of his family, not these continued dramatics. 

“She will walk with us at Cen Rhoy, all in orange and turquoise silks with us. The girls all, except our dear little Visenya, in white,” Ellaria said, putting new, good words to follow the grim ones of the maester. Oberyn twitched a smile at her and curled up next to Sansa. Her eyes were mostly closed, only slivers of white visible as she stared at infinity. 

The children crept into the room ones and twos, Loreza hiccuping and crying until Ellaria let her crawl up onto the bed together with them. Dorea leaned on the wall near the headboard, sniffling. The elder girls had explained to the younger what had happened, and that they would all pray to the Seven for Ysa Sansa’s safety and health. It was soothing as they all spoke the seven supplications to the Gods, and Oberyn did not fight it when his eyes would well up with tears occasionally. 

Quentyn had ushered Queen Daenerys out and did not return, while Daemon and Maester Caleotte lurked in a corner—near at hand should they be needed. Tevira and one of the other handmaidens quietly straightened the room around them, laying out a little food for the children and stoking the fire, giving a sense of normalcy that the room badly needed. 

The one comfort they’d had, though, evaporated after another few hours as Sansa moaned low in her throat and then started shaking. Oberyn sprang up, calling for Caleotte and gathering up Loreza from the bed. She got a glimpse of Sansa as the seizing grew stronger and started bawling, the peace that had settled over the room shattered. Ellaria scooted a little away from Sansa, biting her lips but giving the other woman space—it was best not to restrain someone having convulsions. 

The shaking did not last but a minute, leaving Sansa still for another several when she started twitching again. Loree’s wailing tears in his ear felt akin to what his heart was going through, but then a spark of hope shot through the darkness as Sansa appeared to be trying to speak through her faint. He let Loree down and shooed her towards Tevira, walking to gingerly sit once more with her as she twitched and shook. 

“Sansa? Sansa, come back to us,” he said first in Andaii, and then softer in Rhoynish, “come back to us, lover.”

The twitching and moaning increased until it finally culminated in an unearthly scream, and despite everything Oberyn clutched at her hand as the shaking stopped. He peered into her face, holding his breath as she blinked a few times and her body relaxed. 

“Ellaria? Oberyn?” her voice was raw from the scream, weak from the unnatural sleep she’d been in. 

“Oh my love, my love,” he kissed her forehead, all over her face, not caring that his voice was ragged from emotion. Ellaria crowded closer as well, though worry still tugged at her mouth as tears spilled from her eyes. 

“Oberyn—Oberyn, the dragon,” she started to say, still confused surely, and he was about to tell her she was safe from it when she continued, “I was in his mind. I flew with him.” The ice that had sluiced through his blood when Daemon had carried her into the room was nothing compared to this. 

“I was in his mind," she finally mumbled, her lips still numb and clumsy, "the dragon. Drogon. I was--" Ellaria tried to hush her, but Sansa shook her head against it. "I was in his mind, I flew with him." Oberyn swallowed thickly and called for Tevira to summon Queen Daenerys. Ellaria thought Sansa to still be in shock, but Oberyn would take her at her word. He watched as Sansa’s expression darkened, but what thoughts troubled her he had no way of knowing even as her eyes glistened with unshed tears. 

“How, my darling? How is such a thing possible?” he said, bringing up one of her hands to kiss the fingertips and knuckles. 

“Wildling blood,” she mumbled, “skinchanging. It’s supposed to be a story, just—just a story,” she continued. So the maester’s half-remembered readings were true, he thought as he kept his eyes on hers.

"You have an incredible gift, my darling," he said, gingerly laying down next to her rather than merely sitting, "you are without a doubt blessed by all the Gods, and walk in not only the light of the Seven but also in the twilight of the Old Gods. You could no more deny this gift, my love, than you could deny your Stark blood."

“Ysa Sansa?” Loree and Doree had crept across the room and put their hands on his shoulder as they peered over him at Sansa. Maester Caleotte, who had moved to give Oberyn room, now began to gather up his supplies and make mentions of finding more information about what had happened to Sansa, when Sansa asked him to stay. 

“Do you know how this happens, maester? I’m—I’m afraid,” she said softly. The maester walked to the foot of the bed and smiled down at them. 

“Not nearly enough to be helpful, Princess, I am sorry. There were no legends or tales from the North?”

Sansa flushed and looked down at the hand that Ellaria held close. 

“None that I paid good attention to, I am sorry.”

“There is nothing to apologize for. I am sure that tales of snarks and grumpkins were also included, and why should such fantastical creations exist with us here?” He gave her a kindly smile before making his way out of the room. Now all that remained was to explain to Queen Daenerys what had transpired and hope that her vitriol wouldn’t be strong against Sansa for the sake of her father’s rebellion of decades before. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did you like it? Let me know what you thought!


	65. Sansa, Brynden, Osha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so behind on replying to comments, I'm sorry! I will get to them soon! Like, this afternoon soon!
> 
> Anyway, thank you all so much for reading, I hope you enjoy this chapter!
> 
> ...We have Sansa and Dany having it out, a bit of Blackfish, and OSHA. :D

Sansa felt chilled and sick at first after waking from the trance with the dragon, and snuggled close to Ellaria as the girls crowded around her under the blankets that Oberyn had fetched for her. Loreza, whose face was streaked and reddened from tears, snuffled and mumbled into her neck in a way that Sansa remembered from when she would help her mother with Rickon. The smell of the child’s hair and the warmth of her breath was a welcome comfort. So it was with Ellaria at her back and four little Sand Snakes—loosely—in her arms that Sansa met with Daenerys for what was the second time that day. 

She tried to piece together what to say in her own defense against the woman—Father had fought for and with those who had killed this woman’s family before even her birth. If only Queen Talisa had escaped to Bear Island or Skagos, as Queen Rhaella did to Dragonstone, Sansa thought as she tried to sit up a little from the tangle of limbs that surrounded her. According to Tyene and Nymeria, Ellaria’s girls except for Visenya were inconsolable while she’d been unresponsive. Now she petted at their soft hair as Daenerys was shown into the room and given a seat close at the side of the bed. There was an uncomfortable nudge in her belly as her own Talisa felt her mother’s unease and it was only because of Ellaria and Oberyn staying close at hand that she was able to appear unaffected.

In truth her heart raced.

“You gave us all a fright, Princess,” the other young woman said, smoothing a wrinkle in the blanket that covered the dozing mass of girls. In that motion Sansa saw herself and her own mother—girls forced to grow into women far too soon, and while hardier for it there were things that were embedded along the way for otherwise they would be lost. 

“I did not mean to. It is something long thought to be a myth about my family,” she held Daenerys’ gaze then as she murmured, “the Starks of Winterfell have had many queer things said about them, and this was one of the few truths. Even I did not know I could do it until today.” There was a wavering, confused smile that twitched across the Targaryen’s face then. 

“The Starks?”

“Of the North, yes. My father was Lord Eddard Stark, lord paramount of the North after the death of his father Lord Rickard Stark.” I will be brave, I will be brave like Father and Grandfather, she told herself, I am a Stark and a Martell.

The silence stretched then as Daenerys stared at her, her mouth pressed closed in a severe line while a flush of anger crept up her chest and throat. Sansa clutched at Ellaria’s hand tightly and glanced at Oberyn who made his way to lean against the headboard of the bed. He was part of this small conspiracy to keep the Dragon Queen in the dark about the intricate dealings of the Martell family’s alliances. 

“My queen, do you know that there was once an informer among your guards in the khalasar of Khal Drogo?” Sansa looked up at her husband sharply, for this was an abrupt departure from the matter at hand. She was trying to save their family from being roasted and eaten and he wanted to speak of Dothraki spies? A quick look back at Daenerys though revealed a certain interest, and so Sansa stayed quiet for the moment. 

“And this informer sped news of your pregnancy to Westeros, to the hands of the Butcher King. Do you know what he said?”

Sansa swallowed hard as she realized that she knew a piece of this story. Not much, but she knew this story. It was one she had unwittingly changed the ending of radically and it was not something she would ever consider herself proud to have been a part of. The silver haired woman at her bedside was rapt in her attention to Oberyn now, though. 

“He said, and this is as delicate as he ever put things I am afraid, ‘I want them dead, mother and child both. And that fool Viserys as well,’ to those sitting on his Small Council, to his Hand. That man replied swiftly enough, and as maddeningly honest as he ever was in return to the things spoken to him.

“‘Then we’re no better than the mad king. You want to assassinate a girl,’ he spoke in reply. This of course infuriated the fat butcher, who began railing to the rest of the council for them to speak some sense to the honorable fool he had named Hand not half a year before.”

Sansa wondered how Oberyn could possibly know the contents of that meeting when even she, Lord Eddard’s own daughter, was unclear of the exact words spoken. The most she could muster was that her good family had indeed been committed deeply to this plot of overthrowing the Lannisters and their Baratheon pets—so much so that they had, at least at one point, had a spy who was privy to even the King’s Small Council. 

“And the Lord Hand quietly reminded his liege lord of who they’d been to one another once. Brothers with a bond deeper than blood between them. ‘The Robert I grew up with,’ he said, ‘did not tremble at the shadow of an unborn child. I will have no part in it.’ The Butcher King taunted then that he would find a new Hand of the King who would do as the King bid, and with that, the Hand, Lord Eddard Stark, resigned his position.”

Sansa remembered everything that had come after that—King Robert and her Father had made amends, such as they were, and then the pieces had all begun to fall down and so too had her happiness and her dreams begun to shatter and dim. Not for the first time she wished that Daenerys, a mixture of sweetness and sternness, had been educated by a maester and septa as Sansa herself had been. She might possibly understand, then. 

In silence they waited for the Targaryen woman to digest what had been said, to form her reply from the shocking news. 

“Your father aided those who killed my family—my brother, his wife, their children. My own father, too, died at the hands of rebels. I’d long thought,” Daenerys paused, gathering her words carefully, “was his madness so great as to merit the other deaths? How can it be that the answer is both yes and no?”

“Because there comes a point where power eclipses sense, your Grace. There is little that can temper the whims of those who would be kings,” Sansa replied, a wry smile on her face as she thought of her husband who nearly fell victim to such pride. He was as headstrong as a king sometimes, and nearly one in his own right here in Dorne. 

“This is what you meant, weeks ago in the gardens, this is what you spoke of,” Daenerys said, ignoring Sansa’s words for the most part and moving on. Ellaria glanced between them, reminding Sansa of that terrifying night when they’d almost lost her. In those days and hours she had been as tightly wound as she’d been during those horrid years with Joffrey, alert to every threat that might present itself to her and her new family. 

“Yes, in part. Prince Doran has had to stay alive and in power these twenty years, your Grace. You must understand that the…directness…of Essosi politics is not how things are done here. The only rewards for honesty or directness in the lands below the Neck and above the Dornish North are broken lips and whippings.”

“Or beheadings,” Ellaria added, scowling when Oberyn made a sound to shush her. Sansa didn’t begrudge her the truth, though, nodding in silent agreement. Her father had been beheaded, and so many others horribly murdered. It was not war the Lannisters and their creatures had waged, but murder on a country-wide scale. 

“We will speak on politics later,” Daenerys said with an impatient gesture, “what did you do to my dragon? What did he do to you?”

Sansa was suddenly very glad that she was so surrounded and warm, for it was one thing to tell her lover and husband about what had happened to her. It was quite another to tell the Mother of Dragons that she had, for lack of a better word, possessed one of them and shared his joy at the deep cold of clouds racing over his wings and that she feared she might do it again and that she knew not what she would fly or run as. She’d had dreams, so long ago, of Lady— _as_ Lady.

* * *

 

They’d given Brynden the option of cooling his heels for a day or so in Sunspear, but he had declined. He would make for the Water Gardens where Cat’s daughter was, to set eyes on the girl himself and know her situation to be good or bad. It was a year on now since Cat and Robb had been murdered, and it would do him good to see family. The Martell bannermen who had accompanied him so far did nothing to dissuade him from his course and that gave him greater confidence that Dorne was a good place for his niece. The air felt right here, unlike the strangely tense air of the Twins the night Robb and his army had been butchered. 

He hoped that his personal knowledge of that night, such as it was, might be able to give Princess Sansa some peace—tragedy was all the worse when all that was spoken was rumor or gossip. To know her mother’s corpse had been given a burial would perhaps comfort her heart—it was no funeral for the daughter of Hoster Tully but it was better than what the Freys had meted out to her.

“Lord Brynden Tully presents himself to visit Prince Oberyn and Princess Sansa,” his squire said, having started to finally get used to the job of introducing Brynden wherever they went. The lad did a decent job of it, Brynden thought to himself as he dismounted from his horse to stretch his legs. Princess Loreza and her husband had hosted him here once after the Ninepenny War, to celebrate his and other knight’s successes on behalf of the Crown, and he knew that a squire would be sent running to the main buildings to obtain permission to open the gates. 

They waited the greater part of an hour, time which Brynden did not grudge. He knew how large the grounds were for the Water Gardens, and even a fast boy would spend fifteen minutes running just to the palace doors. When finally the lad returned it was on horse back with another man in tow—tall for a Dornishman, short for a Westerosi, looking the very image of Ser Olyvar Toland, was what could only be Prince Oberyn Martell. 

“Lord Brynden,” he called out as he nearly threw himself from his horse, “forgive me the delay, I had to see you for myself. It has been too long since you’ve been in Dorne!” 

“More than thirty years, yes. You were just a child the last time I saw you, five years old prancing about with a sharpened stick that you walloped all comers with.”

“I still have that habit, though it’s been some years since I used a simple stick. Come, I’ve not told Sansa of your arrival so you will be a welcome surprise.”

It was the oddest thing about the Dornish—their long memories, stories and more passed down through generations the way that Valyrian swords were passed down through families. So many veterans of the war in the Stepstones had made permanent homes in Dorne afterwards, for it was the only place in Westeros where their stories and hardships were, rather than being forgotten, celebrated and remembered. It had indeed been lonely in both the Riverlands and the Vale for Brynden as many of his fellow knights and warriors trickled slowly back to Dorne and he’d had few to reminisce with. 

Yet here in Dorne he knew why—for even a boy of five had remembered Brynden’s deeds well into his thirties. It was a good reminder also why the thought of crossing the Dornish, of putting bad blood between yourself and them, was one to be carefully considered if not thrown away out of hand. The coming of the Rhoynar was as vibrantly commemorated as though it had happened decades ago, while the Targaryen incursions into Dorne were only thinly forgiven by the ‘recent’ marriage into the Seven Kingdoms. Brynden well imagined that rage was still frothy with ire and bile over the deaths of Prince Lewyn, Princess Elia, and the two Targaryen children. 

“I’ve heard tell she’s with child,” he said as he went back to his horse to swing up onto it once more. Prince Oberyn made an assenting noise. 

“One she desired herself, yes. Our daughter will arrive in the next few months. Sansa will be incredibly glad to see you’ve survived, Lord Brynden. She’s given up on so much, it will be good for her to be given something back. Now, tell me, how did you find Dorne during your journey?”

* * *

 

Osha walked as calmly as she could amongst the wolves as Rickon cajoled them down the gangplank to the docks. Captain Immalde had ordered that the way be cleared and space be made for the direwolves, and as they walked their sea-legs off Osha was glad that the beasts would have a place to themselves. Rickon had managed to half-tame the litter and mother but there was no telling what might happen should they be penned with the dogs of the Martells of Sunspear. 

“You’ll think on my offer?” Immalde said as they passed by her, Osha smiled hesitantly then and tugged on a lock of her hair. It was the softest it had ever been, ever since they’d rubbed that chicken shit mixture in it, and she did like the color of it now. A rich dark red that matched, according to Rickon, his lady mother’s long hair but shone in the sunlight a red that reminded him of the sister he’d forgotten the face of. 

“Aye, I’ll think on it. When do you next sail?”

“We are not in any hurry. Cen Rhoy is nearly upon us and a whore who commands my affection will have birthed some man’s bastard by now—I must walk with her on the festival night or I will find myself quite lonely in coming months.”

“Cen Rhoy?” Immalde nodded, her steps taking her along the same path as Rickon’s direwolves but not too close, and Osha was glad for the escort. It had not rained this morning but a brisk fog clung to the air in such a way that concealed the grand keep of Sunspear that Immalde had told her of as they sailed into the harbor. 

“A Dornish festival. Celebrates marriage and babes—new beginnings. The lights are so numerous they threaten to douse even the starlight. You and your boy should come as our guests if no one thinks to invite you. Esmin and I don’t mind bunking up for a few nights.”

Osha gave her a noncommittal smile and kept walking where the various knights and smugglers led them. Rickon walked just ahead of her, his fingers in Shaggy Dog and Snappy Dog’s ruffs as he did so. The pups gamboled around them but otherwise did not snarl or bite at any of those they passed by. Watching him had Osha’s heart filling up with joy. He was a proper wildling boy these days, speaking her tongue when he wanted to keep their words private and sitting with her at the prow of the ship listening to the gods whisper in the wind. 

“It depends on if Konnick’s gift can find us beds and feed, but even if it does it would do the boy good to see familiar faces until he can find some friends here,” Osha replied to the Dornishwoman. She was just getting a smile in return when a booming voice, a broadly accented Dornish one, called out in the fog asking for their names and purposes here in Sunspear. Osha drew closer to Rickon as Captain Immalde purposefully strode forward to meet whoever had spoken, exchanging low words with the man for a long few minutes. 

When she returned she had a soft smile for them and some men in orange and red followed her. 

“These men will take you and your boy to the Prince, with your wolves,” Captain Immalde said.

“Direwolves,” Rickon mumbled rebelliously. 

“Direwolves,” the woman said with a warm smile despite the cold of the morning. 

Rickon clung, as was his wont, to the back of Shaggy Dog and rode on the creature at the lead of the wolves. They trotted up out of the harbor that way, Osha on a horse with the guardsmen, and up towards the keep that was emerging from the fog as the sun rose higher into the sky and burned it away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So let me know what you think of Dany and Sansa's conversation, first off, and otherwise let me know how you liked this chapter--thank you so very much for reading it!


	66. Jorah, Jaime, Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will get to everyone's comments tonight, thank you so so so so so much for reviewing and loving this story as you have been! 
> 
> Now this chapter has some faces that have been absent of late, so do let me know what you think of them! And my attempt at making up a prophecy of some sort, I'd like to know what you think of that!

Jorah had seen the Black Walls of Volantis a few times since he’d come to Essos, though never inside them. A man didn’t get called Jorah the Andal for nothing, and he had no Valyrian bloodline to present to the gatekeepers. None of their party had the proper proofs or even legendary fame to make a good argument of entry. Their queen had, but then again her name was Targaryen. 

The fleet had set sail the same day that Daenerys had left Meereen—it would not be safe to stay longer without the power of the dragon mother. For the first few weeks her two dragons, Viserion and Rhaegal, had stayed with the fleet. They caught fish and screamed at one another and in general it had felt like the beginning of a grand voyage home to Westeros—sailing in the flagship of the rightful queen’s fleet with the other members of her informal Queensguard. But then the dragons had decided amongst themselves that they would follow their mother a month or so out of Meereen, and then the voyage had taken on the tedium of all seafaring. Endless days of hot sunlight interspersed occasionally with torrential storms. 

It was a wonder all of them had made it to Volantis, and one that Jorah remembered to thank the Gods for because they might not grant it to them again as they sailed the rest of the way to Dorne. So many of the freed slaves of Meereen had followed them that he and Barristan worried that they would be taken by the Volantii slavers, but such was not the case. Instead they were met by the Triarchs of Volantis, led in action by the eldest and fiercest of them—Malaquo the Maegyr. 

Old Malaquo had convinced his fellows that to rid Essos—and the Free Cities—of the scourge of Daenerys’ armies and politics was simple. The Mother of Dragons wanted to return to Westeros, and the aiding her would give them ground to demand she never return to their lands and spheres. To seal the deal, they learned as they resupplied their ships and consulted weathersooths about the crossing of the Narrow Sea, the Triarchs had pledged the Volantene navy to Daenerys in her bid to reclaim her throne. Barristan was impressed but Jorah was more cynical. Those in the Free Cities understood tribute and conquerors. 

The Volantii nobility knew that Daenerys had learned her politics from the Dothraki, and while they did not know her particular blend of Dothraki brutality they did understand how to make the Dothraki go away. Only in this case, it looked to them like paying this ‘tribute’ would reap a permanent reward unlike what was paid to the khals. 

Triarch Malaquo also sent with this navy his grandson Talarro. The young man was of an age with Daenerys, perhaps a little younger, and there were hard lines on his face as he boarded the ship to sail with Jorah and Barristan. 

“Daenerys the Targaryen promised us the murderers of my sister, Queen Talisa the Stark, and I will see her promise fulfilled. I will take them to the Temple of Meraxos and see their faces carved off while they live and then their bodies trodden upon by the sacred elephants,” the young man said in quick Valyrian when questioned about why his grandfather sent him. It had reached them that Robb Stark and his wife and mother had been murdered at a wedding, but it was news to all of them that the young man’s wife had been a Volantii. 

It was a wonder the Triarchs hadn’t declared war on Westeros already, Jorah reflected as he watched the youthful man go below to his cabin. They did not suffer insults, nor did they suffer murderers of true Valyrian blood. 

“That boy is going to need to be taught Andaii,” Barristan said with a sigh. Jorah smirked at him and rested his elbows down on the railing. Behind them the sailors made ready to set sail for Tyrosh where a second gift of the Free Cities awaited them—the Archon of Tyrosh and the Triarchs of Volantis had hired the Golden Company to ensure that at the end of the war Daenerys was the only living claimant to the Iron Throne. 

“Or not, there’s a certain vitriol that is kept when a boy like that is allowed to yell and gesture as he pleases with his audience none the wiser to his words. Though I’ve a feeling that that boy picks his battles carefully.”

It did make Jorah anxious though—Talarro was a handsome youth with ambition, and Daenerys was attracted to those with pretty faces. He hoped she had reconciled herself well and fully to a political marriage with Prince Quentyn because the Dornish would tolerate her keeping a lover so long as she married into the Martells. Setting aside their prince as only a paramour wouldn’t win her any favors—and marrying a Maegyr seemed to have already led to the death of one young monarch. 

Jorah intended on the mistake not being repeated by his fair queen.

* * *

 

Jaime managed to keep from bursting out laughing at his brother, but only just. It wouldn’t have been mocking laughter, much more self-deprecating than cruel or teasing. He had told Father he would attempt to wed Princess Arianne in hopes that he might rule Dorne through her rather than have her pass her claim on to her younger brother Quentyn but it seemed that his brother had beaten him to it. Tyrion was dressed in one of the queer Dornish robes that reached his shins, the red Lion of Lannister on his chest sitting docile before a golden yellow Martell sun. 

Princess Arianne was beautiful and lovely, and neither she nor his brother bore one another any affection from how stiffly they stood together. It didn’t bother Jaime overmuch—he’d seen many unhappy, very political marriages over the course of his life and in honesty hadn’t expected any different result for himself. Besides, he saw Tyrion’s sellsword and the baseborn Tyrell squire and if they hadn’t been done away with it showed that his little brother was in safe hands. 

“Ser Jaime please allow us to invite you to supper tonight. You no doubt will wish to unpack and wash beforehand, but we are exceedingly glad to play host to you,” Princess Arianne said before taking Tyrion’s arm and leading the way up out of the harbor. She was just short enough and Tyrion just tall enough that it didn’t look so comical as it had when Tyrion had been wed to Sansa Stark. Jaime led his own coterie to follow the Martells and let his mind drift as he walked. 

Was his vow to Lady Catelyn Stark fulfilled now that the woman’s daughter was in Dorne? His father had asked his advice months ago—some sort of demented test, everything with Tywin was a damned test—and Jaime had reminded the man of how the Dornish nursed insults and hurts. How they so easily forgot those insults when given someone to warm their bed. Now that Prince Oberyn had asked for Sansa’s hand the man had likely determined to take her with him to Dorne regardless—by giving her over willingly they might cut through the man’s bitterness towards his own sister’s death. 

It had earned him a look of satisfaction from his father—he’d passed the test—and the next he heard about Sansa Stark was that she’d been married to Oberyn Martell, destined to birth only daughters and never a son to take back the North. It was beautifully neat and remarkably bloodless for a plan of his father’s—despite leaving the girl alive, which was odd. Perhaps Tywin thought that Sansa was too broken to do anything more. Was Jaime’s vow fulfilled in that he did not tell his father of how the Starks had thought Jaime himself too broken to do anything more? That he hadn’t told Tywin that there was nothing that would have stopped Jaime from returning to Cersei, who was the home his heart craved for so long—that Sansa’s children would know they had a home outside of Dorne for so long as she drew breath?

That the bannermen of the North knew that Sansa survived, and would take a Stark even if that Stark was female? Just because Tyrion and Cersei had each cultivated their political minds did not mean that Jaime was ignorant. He’d spent almost all of his life in King’s Landing listening to intrigue and scandal and every sort of betrayal. He was the Kingslayer for Gods’ sake. 

The city that they walked up into felt old, despite new paint on most of the buildings—even the mud ones were decorated in bright designs done mostly in orange and turquoise but with reds and yellows and other colors as well. The streets were cobblestones or simply dirt, no fancy flagstones such as were found in King’s Landing. They wouldn’t be, I suppose, Jaime thought to himself as they were shown through the Threefold Gate, flagstones were a Targaryen notion if I recall. Easier to clean dragon shit off of, I suppose.

“What is the occasion with the redecorating?” he asked one of the knights walking close by. The man had given him a small smile—a pleasant one, even—as he answered. 

“The festival of Cen Rhoy is less than a week away. We will celebrate children and marriage, even bastards will walk with Princess Arianne and Prince Oberyn to the Sept of Fhoserrio. Lanterns will light the sky like stars, and the blessing of the Seven will be upon the children of Mother Rhoyne once more.”

 

* * *

Jon made Edd acting Commander while he was to be away. Out of all his brothers who survived, Edd was the one who most knew Jon’s state of mind as well as had a head of his own—and he’d held the top of the Wall when Jon had gone down to aid Ser Alliser Thorne. Ser Alliser himself he made a supporting adviser, for despite their differences the man knew how to run the machine that was the Watch. Moreover the man was honorable—angry, heartsick, and more, but honorable. 

The Free Folk he ensured were settled in, instructed to defend their southron borders from those bearing the banners of Stannis Baratheon and Roose Bolton—and to defend against deadmen or worse from above the Wall. That he had ridden through their encampments with Ghost trotting at his side had helped his case—he’d lived as one of them, he shared blood with them, and a direwolf panted happily at his side. Their menfolk being absent, helping the Men of the Night’s Watch, the women of one of the last camps pressed a weirwood sapling into his hands. 

“So those in the South might learn to hear the Gods again,” a young woman said as she comforted her infant child, several others clinging to her skirts. 

“And so that you might hear them as well until you return here, Jon Snow,” an old crone said as he put the sapling into his pack about to swing up onto his horse once more, “the Gods might not have eyes with that tree, but they’ll certainly have ears and mouths to speak with. Would you hear an old woman tell your future, before you leave the lands of your forefathers?”

Jon hesitated for a moment, looking at the few men he was bringing with him and then also at the assembled crowd of women and young children. He had made these Free Folk members of the Night’s Watch—binding them with oaths and blood to serve and preserve his order. He belonged to them as much as they belonged to him these days, and so Jon nodded and followed the old woman to her tent. 

“Your guardian must enter, for he must bear witness that I tell truth,” she said with a glance towards Ghost. Jon was a little unsure the animal would fit through the flap, but he nodded agreement anyway. You understood more by listening, he’d learned over the last several years. 

“Ghost isn’t—”

“His coat is white as weirwood, his eyes as red as those of a godsface, and he is as silent and inscrutable as the gods. Your guardian has protected you since you lifted him to your arms, this I have seen.” Jon swallowed harshly then, remembering Old Nan’s terrifying tales of wargs and greenseers and more. The old Gods he believed in, but until going North of the Wall and living among them who called it home he had not understood that just because the Gods were  old did not mean their laypersons did not exist any longer. He’d met wargs, yes, but a soothsayer—a real one—was another thing altogether. 

“What else have you seen, aged one?”

“Two fathers, one whose chest caved in fighting darkness and the other whose darkness caved his chest in so much his head fell from his shoulders. And three mothers—one dying to give life to the second, the second dying to give fire to the third. And then there is a child whose look is as icy as winter but whose heart burns with a fire that even fire fears. That is what I see, Jon Snow, and what I know is that that child is tied to you,” the crone said as she ladled a few mouthfuls of stew into a bowl and handed it to him. Jon took a hesitant sip—Free Folk’s words could ebb and flow like the wind—and then a larger swallow as the woman settled down amongst her furs. 

“And this is what awaits me in the South?” he finally asked, having worked out that somehow there was a child in his future. It might not be an actual child, it might not even be his, but its presence now lurked in his mind. 

“You who walk on rose petals, whose blood smokes on hot, dry snow, you will bleed your life’s blood out in the North. That from whence you came shall not claim you—for neither love nor status can alter what the Gods have made,” she finally said, stroking at a trailing edge of the wrap that covered her shoulders. It was hard to see in the relative gloom of the tent, but her eyes glittered brightest green for a moment despite the brown they’d been outside. Jon finished the bit of stew she’d given him in silence. 

“Thank you,” he said as he stood, nearly shouting when one of her hands—twisted and strong—grabbed his elbow as he turned away from her. 

“These are no words of fantasy, Jon Snow, nor are they to lead you astray—your guardian would tear such lies from my throat and feast on them.” Jon dared turn to look at her, hoping he wouldn’t see blue eyes and sagging in relief when concerned brown was all he met. 

“Ghost has opened plenty of throats for reasons I think known only to Ghost,” he replied as diplomatically as possible as he got his arm free from her. Old Nan seemed like Septa Mordane compared to this woman, he thought as he walked out of the tent. 

“Your guardian’s reasons come from the Gods and it is not for you to understand them. Focus on your path—else the roses will wither in the heat of the snow,” she called after him as he walked again to his horse and pulled himself up into the saddle. If only Sam or Maester Aemon were about he could ask them what the woman might possibly mean. Even Sansa would know better how to pick apart the words than he, her favorite passtime at Winterfell having been reading and reciting complicated poems and songs. Such children they had been, back then!

That from whence you came shall not claim you, he reflected as they headed towards the Kingsroad to King’s Landing, I already forsook Robb and Lady Catelyn. Could she mean Sansa, since she’s the last Stark that’s not presumed dead? Jon certainly hoped that Sansa wouldn’t ask him to leave the Night’s Watch—for he might not be able to say no to the last of his family.

He just hoped he didn’t meet any women on this journey—the last time he’d been out ranging was when he’d met Ygritte. Jon dearly wanted this ranging to go a little better than the last, given that it was ranging into the South rather than the North. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you haven't been in the Oberyn/Sansa shiptag here on Ao3 recently you should check it out! We've had several stories update and MissMallora has written us a whole second chapter of her "Revelations" story. Give some love and kudos and comments to these other lovely and fantastic stories :D
> 
> Thank you for reading--and now I want to know what you all thought of the wildling crone's prophecy for Jon...because he's going to interpret it wrong later on, I can tell you that much right away :D
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	67. Tywin, Quentyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we have Tywin, but he is mostly turning his mind towards Tommen here. And then we have Quentyn! Give it up for Queeeennnntynnn Maaaaartellllll! Yes. Don't hate me. Promise?

 

 

 

“My lord Hand, a raven has come from Sunspear bearing a Lannister seal,” Grand Maester Pycelle said, hobbling into the Small Council chamber. Late, a habit that Tywin detested. He glanced up at the man and then towards Tommen, gritting his teeth for a long moment before choosing to teach his grandson rather than dictate towards the boy. Joffrey had needed a sterner hand, but this child was as malleable as clay in his hands and more than ever Tywin had begun to feel the fingers of old age creeping at his body. Even having a beautiful woman in his bed to hold and caress him could not assuage the feeling that the Stranger was nearer than ever to finding his doorway. 

 

If he wanted to preserve the Lannister legacy he needed to solidify it sooner than later.

 

“Grand Maester, the King is in attendance to the Small Council today and will receive correspondence that is pertinent to his rule. He may then choose to resolve the issue himself as is his right or he may instead refer it to one of his advisers. In future please give his Grace his due or he will be forced to take it by right,” he said, despite how his fingers itched to take and read the small letter. Tommen would need the strength to make sure information about his realm reached his eyes before the eyes of his counselors, and it was better to start him on it young. It would do the boy no favors to hold his hand through every hour of every day. Cersei would rather have coddled her children and never let them feel hurts or pains or indecision—her own way of dealing with the death of her mother surely—but such behavior was not the proper way to raise kings and princes. 

 

Tommen read the letter, his face smooth as he did so unlike Jaime who scowled when he read even to this very day, and straightened in his seat a little. Tywin clenched his jaw a little tighter as he saw his son’s face in that of the boy before him—Cersei and Jaime had been clever enough, but he’d been warned long ago of their proclivities. His readiness to defend Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen as legitimate had stemmed from that early knowledge. 

 

He tried not to think on it too much on a day to day basis. He had little sentimentality about his children but what horrors Cersei had endured with Robert that had driven her to actually carry her brother’s children—he didn’t think too much on that topic either. 

 

As they waited in silence, Tywin swore he caught a glimpse of a small oval love bite on Tommen’s neck. All of thirteen and already wound around a woman’s finger. At least Queen Margaery seemed to understand what Cersei had not: the realm could so easily bleed out at the least provocation, and provocation was the last thing any one needed these days. Tywin did not trust his grandson’s wife—Margaery Thriceblessed she was called by the smallfolk who felt her warmth and love keenly as snow began to drift from the sky more often than not. Whether or not it was a mummer’s farce mattered little so long as she created an illusion of piety felt by the Crown before the Seven. 

 

“My lord Tywin, I congratulate you on your son Tyrion’s marriage to Arianne of the House Nymeros Martell, Princess of Dorne. Your heir, Ser Jaime, writes that his goodsister has offered her help in arranging a wedding for Ser Jaime himself. Your House has honorably served the Realm in,” the boy paused and thought of his words for a few moments, “reuniting and strengthening ties with so many of the Great Houses after the terrible rebellion. You have the grateful thanks of the Crown.”

 

Tywin did not let his surprise show on his face as he watched Tommen carefully fold the letter in half and took it when the boy handed it to him. There was true potential in his grandson, and he was glad to know of it. 

 

“House Lannister is as always a stalwart defender of your House and your rule, your Grace,” Tywin replied, letting some of the tension bleed out of him as he tucked the letter into his sleeve and nodded for the meeting to continue on. He would read it later at his leisure where he might let his expression become unguarded. Shae was to spend the evening serving Queen Margaery and her companions, spying on Tywin’s oddest ally. Tywin ignored a strange upset in his stomach and reached for his goblet of wine as they moved on to other business. The Tyrells had sent some of their best coin masters to aid with beginning the stern repayments demanded by the Iron Bank—Tywin having had to tell Kevan to begin trying to write away some of the debt owed to House Lannister by the Crown for the royal coffers could not afford to repay both. 

 

Unlike under Robert and Joffrey, the Crown was now obedient to House Lannister and that was a kind of payment that was hard to quantify but it was the most the Crown could afford at the moment. Pride came always before a fall, and he refused to let the realm fall into disarray over the pride of “a Lannister always pays his debts,” remaining the common knowledge of his House. He had worked too hard and too long to let it slip through his fingers like so much water—he’d willingly put his son’s bastards on the Iron Throne with an ironic sense of satisfaction that such things were so well within his power. 

 

“We have some reports that a fleet has arrived in Volantis and that the Triarchs grumble about making war on Westeros for the death of Robb Stark’s wife,” Varys was saying, pausing to look at Tommen and then Tywin. The man was the fastest to adapt to changes at court and it was an ability that Tywin both appreciated and deeply suspected. He tried not to let the Master of Whispers know his own doings as much as he could help it.

 

“What is the Young Wolf’s wife to those inbred slavers?” Mace Tyrell grumped. To his left Randyll Tarly inhaled a long, deep breath and released it slowly. Tywin watched in private amusement as the Master of Laws controlled his temper against the Master of Ships. No doubt Lord Tyrell’s eldest son, Willas, was glad of his father’s absence as he dealt with whatever pernicious snit that Cersei had worked herself into by now—while here in the Capitol they dealt with the whims of Lord Mace who had all of the airs of a Redwyne but with little of the unrelenting ambition. No, Mace Tyrell was alike unto a cavalry charge. 

 

Effective and impressive both but hard to command once released to the field of battle and losses would either be light or heavy. There was of course ambition in him, else he wouldn’t give his wily mother’s words two seconds thought, but it was of a different sort than Olenna Redwyne’s. Luckily for Tywin he had seen more lords and their behavior than many others in Westeros and he knew how to control Mace. It had been as simple as making the man’s favorite bannerman a member of the Small Council—Mace had someone to impress, someone smarter than him in the ways of war, and so his ambition was stymied as he dealt with Lord Tarly’s presence. Besides, there were few better minds for battle than Randyll Tarly and Tywin would be a fool to even suggest differently. 

 

“The Boltons informed us of Robb Stark’s marriage to a lady of Volantis—the granddaughter to one of their Triarchs, of the House Maegyr. They will rage for a year or two but fighting a war on our own continent broke the Starks, there is no reason to fear an army sick from crossing the Narrow Sea to fight against our men now that they’ve been blooded,” Tarly said once he had himself in hand. 

 

“Though,” the man added with a look at Tommen, “I merely offer this as a comment on the matter to his Grace the King.” Tywin also turned his attention to his grandson, schooling his face to give no hint to the young monarch. Tommen would learn to ask for help and when not to, Tywin would give the boy that much in the years he had left to him. 

 

“I will ask that all new knowledge regarding this matter be brought to me, and that Lord Tywin and Lord Randyll craft a plan of defense against such attacks as Volantis might bring to the Realm. Lord Varys you have my thanks for bringing this matter before the council.” 

 

It might have been years since anyone had seen him smile, but Tommen was fast becoming something that he might once again smile over. Everything wrong with the last three men to sit the throne wasn’t yet present in Cersei’s son, and the warning signs of madness were not there either as they’d been in Joffrey. If he still truly believed in the Gods, he might have said that they were good.

* * *

 

Quentyn found Queen Daenerys after she missed supper later that evening. She’d spent most of the afternoon with Uncle Oberyn and Sansa but had asked to remain undisturbed once she’d left their chambers. Quentyn hadn’t had time to seek her out until after the evening meal—a meal where his father and Uncle Oberyn thoroughly dressed him down for convincing the servants to conceal his whereabouts (sleeping on a chaise in Queen Daenerys' rooms). His uncle had been the less understanding, which was a surprise given that the man was usually a wealth of wisdom in the study of doing as he pleased. 

His father, Doran, on the other hand had had a sympathetic warmth to his face even as he scolded Quentyn. The safety of many people rested on the trustworthiness of the servants of the Water Gardens and it was not fair of Quentyn to have preyed on Dornish romanticism in attempting to meet his intended. 

When he found the Targaryen queen, Quentyn of course mentioned nothing of this. He was not easy with strangers becoming fast friends as his siblings were, and he did not want to share his embarrassing family meeting with the woman. She had enough to think on, he estimated, and he did not want to cause her further strife. It would become a playful story for them, later in life, but for now his ears burned with self-consciousness.

Queen Daenerys was feeling unsure as well, he soon realized when her violet eyes met his. She was curled up on her bed, his robe tugged over her shoulders for warmth and when she reached a hand out to him he went to her side and sat beside her. The nights weren’t so cold in the Winter as they were in the Summer but today had been sunny and fair—so the night was appropriately cold to follow. 

“Do you know of any other surprises awaiting me, aside from finding that Princess Sansa is able to share her mind with my dragon? That she is the daughter of a man who rebelled against my family’s rule? That my father murdered a family member of anyone else here in Dorne?” He was saddened at her despondent voice when before he’d always heard a thread of stern leadership that he heard in his father’s voice. There was little time to be oneself while also being a ruler, his mother had said to him when he’d been a young boy and yearning for his father’s attention. 

“Yes, but I will only tell you if you promise not to set anyone on fire.” She gave him a humorless laugh then, resting her head on his shoulder but otherwise remaining motionless. He took it as an agreement because they wouldn’t be able to hide little Myrcella Martell forever. 

“The daughter of the Usurper Robert Baratheon, Myrcella Baratheon. Though she’s now family, having married my younger brother Trystane. She has none of the malcontent in her that is so prevalent in the Capitol, according to everyone who has met her. She is almost as perfect a little lady as Princess Sansa.”

“She is the bastard of her uncle, the Kingslayer,” she said with the conviction of rote memorization. How blind had the Butcher King been to not notice, how terrifying he must have been to never bring such a claim against his queen before him, when it was plain that such news had made it across even the Narrow Sea. Quentyn did not nod, but did weigh his words carefully before he spoke them. 

“Without such a confession from either her mother or Ser Jaime, we cannot say either way but…surely you understand why my father in particular cannot condone violence being done to her?” The woman next to him was about to answer when a mighty splashing started outside in the pools next to her chamber’s terrace. Quentyn slowly got up and crept towards the archway, sucking in a deep breath and letting it out as a laugh when he glimpsed what was disturbing the water. The two smaller dragons, Rhaegal and Viserion, were—were playing and grooming one another, low growls and chitters accompanying their movements. 

Queen Daenerys came up next to him, his robe now clutched around her shoulders, and a smile split her face when she saw her dragons. They’d not seen Drogon since when he’d landed in front of Sansa in the gardens, but these two appeared unruffled by their brother’s absence. 

“I would not hurt a girl for being the child of siblings,” Queen Daenerys said softly as they watched the dragons and took his hand, “it would be a new form of hypocrisy for a Targaryen. The granddaughter of Tywin Lannister? Another thing. My goodsister?” another mirthless chuckle, “yet another. Princess Sansa said that things are not as direct here, and I wonder if there are mazes with fewer turns.” Quentyn looked over at her, wondering if he was as smitten with his Daenerys as his ancestor Maron had found himself, and put his arm around her shoulders. 

“We shall have to bring with us twists of indigo leaves to mark the walls, then, so we might find our way out.” She gave him a better smile then and relaxed a little against him and started to softly tell him of Rhaegal and Viserion’s rivalry for her affection and their playful pouting when Drogon would muscle them aside. As though sensing their mother’s words, the dragons growled and purred as they reached their long necks up over the terrace rails and huffed hot air in their faces. 

“ Mae ayi dostauorhat, mae ayi Viserion, Rhaegal. Aetha ny vaeha ny nae ii amahat,” Queen Daenerys said, Valyrian flowing from her lips as easily as water. _Hello my dragons, hello Viserion, Rhaegal. This man is to be your father_. 

When she tugged him closer to the railing, Quentyn followed her with hesitant steps. The dragons watched him with bright eyes, their purring becoming uncertain as he approached. The silvery haired woman to his side let him go and raised her hands to pet the scaly faces, grinning happily when each dragon chirruped with pleasure. As though in a trance, Quentyn stepped closer to her when she reached out one hand to him and raised trembling fingers to stroke the muzzle of the green dragon Rhaegal. _A dragon, I am touching a dragon,_ he thought with a bit of glee. The Rhaegal’s bronze eyes, blazing with heat and intelligence, watched him warily for a moment and then without warning the green dragon pulled back several feet and spat a gout of fire down on him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you not to hate me--you promised! Have faith!
> 
> ....anyway, thank you for reading and please let me know what you think if you have a second!


	68. Dany, Brynden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I feel all shamefaced for having promised Brynden POV in chapter 67 and not delivering. I am pleased to report that such is not the case with this chapter! Here we have...people...and then we have Brynden!! Brynden Tully!!
> 
> I hope that you enjoy this chapter!!

Dany’s scream froze in her throat as Rhaegal belched fire onto Quentyn, his fine clothing bursting into flames as he cowered and shouted. She’d heard the shrill screams of the Wise Masters of Astapor when she’d commanded her dragons to burn them, and while those men had deserved dragon fire and more her shy Dornishman did not. She yelled at Rhaegal and turned to Quentyn’s form, shivering as the flames ate at his robe and breeches. 

It occurred to her that she heard his quick, shocked gulps of air but that screams of pain did not make their way from his lips and as Dany touched his shoulder he looked up at her. Quentyn’s face was sooty and alarmed, the last of his clothes smoldering and falling from him in smoky patches. Dany choked a laugh out, unable to even believe that he was alright. She’d seen Rhaegal and his brothers spit less fire on bigger, sterner men who had succumbed to the flames that ate into their flesh. 

“You are—you aren’t dead,” she whispered, cupping his face between her hands and checking for burns. The majority of the fire had landed on his head and face and she had to be dreaming. He could not be alive. Quentyn coughed a little and leaned in to rest his forehead on hers. For a quick moment she remembered when Drogo would do the same to her, how safe she’d felt when he did so. 

“I have Targaryen blood in me, not so pure as yours but a decent enough amount I think. And my mother’s mother was a pureborn from Volantis before marrying a man of Norvos—so I have a decent amount of Valyrian blood,” he said softly, and then with a slightly hysteric giggle, “or I am dead and the Seven have given me the miracle my heart cried out for when Rhaegal opened his mouth.” Dany giggled as well, sliding one hand from his cheek to his neck, feeling the strong pulse of his heart in the hollow of his throat. He had warm skin, he didn’t feel cool to the touch as almost everyone else did under her fingertips. 

“Fire cannot kill a dragon,” she said and then stood up on her toes and kissed him. It was impulsive and silly but it suddenly mattered immensely that Quentyn was alive and there with her. That he was unburnt, as she was. His returning kiss was firm and desperate, his arms banding around her to hold her close. Quentyn Martell was not so handsome as Drogo or Daario—even Jorah had a certain rugged appeal that this man did not, but unlike them Quentyn would not perish in dragon fire. It was with a mindless desperation that she helped him unlace her gown and then get him out of the tattered rags that had been his clothing only minutes before. 

Down in the pool the dragons chittered and chirruped their pleasure as Dany and Quentyn sank down to the stone floor of the terrace. It only took a few strokes to bring her Dornishman awake, and he lay under her willingly as she sank down onto him. It stung and burned a little—she wasn’t wet enough, but nothing seemed truly amiss as her new lover gasped and twitched. Quentyn was covered in soot from the fire of his robes but she loved him for it. They could not have children of their own, but he would at least be able to be close to her dragons without fear of incineration. 

When she started to move he sucked in air and grabbed at her hips, chanting her name as he moved with her. Dany closed her eyes and let go of the control she’d so sternly put herself under since leaving Meereen. It felt glorious, and she bent down to kiss Quentyn to share her joy with him. He wanted nothing from her other than that which she was willing to give him, and in return he was giving her something far more precious than he even probably realized. A person to fall in love with the way that she’d seen the common folk fall in love over the course of her life—not the obsessive way that she’d fallen in love with Drogo and even Daario to some extent. This would not be a marriage of flames and embers but of brightly glowing coals. 

It would last, she managed to decide as Quentyn rolled them over and nipped at her neck, and she had always wanted something that would last.

* * *

 

Brynden resisted gasping at the sight of pair of dragons sleeping on top of one another a little way away from the palace, their wings shielding their faces from the watery sunlight of the day. It was a near miss with losing his head at seeing the two monstrous creatures. At his side Prince Oberyn rode in contemplative silence. They’d talked a bit about Dorne, and Brynden had made sure not to ask questions he didn’t want answers to. Had they made this man and Sansa consummate their marriage in King’s Landing? Or had his niece’s daughter somehow escaped such treatment and chosen her first bedding herself? He had hopes but managed to keep his tongue in place and obedient. 

No matter the answer, it would be a painful one for Sansa to give him and he did mean to spare her more pain. She had deserved honorable knights and courteous lords, and while Brynden kept the Dornish in warm regard he also knew that theirs was not a realm that was high on the lists of many young girls with stars in their eyes. It was good that Cat’s daughter was safe, though, and as they dismounted and gave their horses to the stable boys Brynden reminded himself of the fact. King Robb and Cat and all their men had been unable to save Sansa. The Martells had not only stepped in but had rescued her from the Lannisters, taking her as far from them as was truly possible.

“Would you like to meet her straight away?” Prince Oberyn asked as they walked. He nodded, knowing that it would give the servants time to draw up a hot bath rather than one of the cold ones used during Summer. Besides, he wanted to get to know the girl who Robb and Cat had died for. 

The hallways echoed with their footsteps, the thick wooden heels of Dornish boots sounding like small hammers, and the honor guard the Manwoodys had sent him with fell behind them some paces. Outside he could hear children playing and shouting happily and Brynden missed old Ser Olyvar who had been overwhelmingly rich in personality and kindness. Though from a good family he had never been slated as the husband of the Princess of Dorne, and it spoke to the respect Princess Loreza’s family had had for her choices that she’d been allowed to marry the man at all. 

Prince Oberyn left him outside of the chamber where Sansa was and though he strained he could not make out much more than the murmur of voices through the wood. All he caught was the tail end of an admonishment from Prince Oberyn to ‘be good,’ as the man opened the door and ushered Brynden inside. The room was large and warm from a fire that burned merrily in the hearth, and before it two women sat together on a chaise. What seemed to be a half dozen children were sprawled out in front of them, their play having been interrupted by Prince Oberyn and himself. At the side of the chaise stood a bassinet, and Brynden was struck remembering Hoster’s wife Minisa as she’d sat with her daughters and son while a Tully cousin attended her. 

“Sansa,” Prince Oberyn was saying, drawing the red haired girl who was Cat’s own image to stand, “my dear lady you will perhaps be gladdened to welcome Lord Brynden Tully to our home.” The girl was pregnant, perhaps two or three moons from the birthing bed, but she moved with a careful grace nonetheless. As she got closer he saw small differences between her and his niece. Catelyn had had a classic beauty, while Sansa’s skin was the translucent paleness given only to Starks and her chin reminded him a bit of her father’s when he’d been but a boy. Brynden bowed low—she was a Princess of Dorne now but he came to swear fealty to her as his queen also—and gently kissed the hand she gave him. 

There were tears in her eyes as he rose from his bow and he hoped she did not mind the dust from the road getting on her dress as she held him in as tight of a hug as they could manage. 

“They said everyone was massacred,” she whispered, keeping her words from the children who now piled up onto the woman who could only be Ellaria Sand, “they—they—they said everyone,” and then her words tapered off into nothingness. Brynden only squeezed her gently. If he’d met her upon the road she would never have believed his claim of family upon her, but here in Dorne he was well known and she could trust him. Such pain had been brought down on her, he wondered how she’d managed to keep standing. Burying Cat had nearly undone him. 

“Your mother rests, dear child,” he said softly, leaning back to kiss the top of her head, “on the banks of the Green Fork. I could not honor your brother, but your mother sleeps where all the Seven might find her spirit and give her such comforts they can afford.” Sansa pressed her face into his chest, shaking from the strength of her sobs though they were near silent. Her fingers twisted in his shirt and cloak, and he felt tears soaking through to his skin. She whimpered out a few words that might have been thanks of some sort but then was distracted by one of the dark haired little girls coming to wrap her skinny arms around Sansa’s legs. 

With a sniffle Sansa composed herself a bit and turned towards the child. 

“Loree, this is,” she paused and glanced at him up and down, “this is my uncle, Lord Brynden, but you can call him Xalyam if you want,” the little girl, whose night dark eyes were eerily similar to those of Prince Oberyn, looked up at him and gave a mangled little curtsy. She couldn’t have been much more that five. Xalyam—grandfather in Rhoynish. Sansa’s eyes were red from her tears but her voice did not waver as she introduced him to the four little bastard girls of Oberyn Martell, and her tone was warm with love and affection as she finally lifted the infant from the bassinet. Visenya—to honor the girl’s birth as well as to charm away bad luck from her. 

Queen Rhaenys had lost her seat in Dorne, but her sister had never defeated the Dornish nor brought them to heel. Somewhere in whatever of the Seven Hells or Heavens that Prince Rhaegar had been sent to he was probably unamused at a niece of his being named thusly and Brynden’s smile only grew wider with that knowledge. 

“Speaking of Targaryens, I saw you had a pair of dragons in the gardens?” Had the whispers of a Targaryen Queen been true? Had the last child of Queen Rhaella or Elia, no one had ever been truly sure, survived and hatched dragons?

“My husband and goodbrother play host also to Queen Daenerys,” a short glance at Prince Oberyn had a smile blooming on Sansa’s lips, “of too many titles, and her three dragons. She is away today with Prince Quentyn, but should return tomorrow or the day after.” Queen of too many titles—Brynden laughed, feeling light for the first time in months. Despite whatever horrors the Lannisters had brought against Cat’s darling girl, they’d not broken her beyond repair. He’d thought for decades now that Dorne was the best of the Seven Kingdoms and over the last several weeks traversing the place he’d not been proven wrong. He was glad that of all places, Cat’s daughter had ended up here. 

After spending some more time sitting with the family Brynden retired to the rooms that had been prepared for him and gratefully washed the road from himself. Then, clad in a Dornish tunic that reached just past his knees and soft breeches, he padded his way to the small chapel dedicated to the Seven and spent some time alone praying that they would comfort Sansa’s family that she was among those who were good to her and for her. When he stood to go he jumped at seeing Sansa standing just behind him looking at the flames that burned merrily in the brazier lit before the Mother. 

“Would she have wanted this for me? Would she still have loved me after taking this path?” the girl did not speak of the Mother but of her own mother, Cat. Brynden looked at her up and down again, this time without her new family surrounding her. Her face was full and glowing, and though the strain of King’s Landing had threatened to carve shadows beneath her eyes there were only hints of such an attempt, and her belly swelled out from her otherwise slight form. Surely she carried either a son of Tully proportions or a pair of daughters.

“Taking what path?” Her blue eyes were as somber as her father’s as they met his and she made her way to sit in the chapel—reaching out a hand to bring him to sit with her. In the candlelight and firelight of the room her hair burned the bright red of heart’s blood. 

“Oberyn saw to it that my marriage to Tyrion Lannister was broken and took me away from them. His,his paramour is, well, Ellaria is also my paramour. I only learned to trust Oberyn because she trusted him, and when she thought he’d,” there was a long pause then as she gathered her words to her, falling back on diplomatic ones that she’d no doubt had to perfect while under the thumb of Joffrey, “when she thought he’d bedded me, and bedded me…forcefully at that, she slapped him silly.” Brynden didn’t ask the obvious then—Prince Oberyn had seen as readily as Brynden himself had that Sansa was young and needed space to make up her own mind. The man had ensured that she chose the time and place of her first bedding.

“I’m sure—”

“And I asked him for poison,” she rushed on, “when he fought the Mountain, I asked him for poison so that if he died they couldn’t have me. If I’d done that, wouldn’t that have made Mother’s death in vain?” her voice was small and unsure, likely having never spoken of these fears let alone even organized them into coherent thoughts. Brynden luckily had a ready answer for her. 

“Your mother tried a dozen different ways to save you. She sacrificed her own freedom by freeing the Kingslayer on an oath that he would have you returned to her. She worked with the Tyrells and Lord Petyr Baelish, she reminded your brother at constant turns that his war was to rescue you and your sister not to claim a crown for himself. I do not say that some of these methods sat well with her, or that yours would not have broken her heart on your behalf, but Cat would never cast you out for escaping.”

“But I was willing to—willing to kill myself to escape them if Oberyn—” there was more to this worry of Sansa’s but she did not speak it and so Brynden did not press her, only answered her. 

“There are Seven Heavens because one Heaven is not enough to encapsulate all the joys the Gods give those who die in grace, love, and piety. Your mother would have met you in one of them, I am sure, and met you without an ounce of blame in her eyes. She would know that yours was a death of choice, and that someone had given you a way out of King’s Landing. Perhaps all her prayers were focused on that bit of poison, and the Seven protected your husband in answer to her.”

It shook him, as he put one arm around her small shoulders, that she’d been willing to kill herself even if it had been half a year or more since then. If anything it strengthened his desire to put the Baratheons and Lannisters to the sword, for Sansa was the last of his family and as a Tully he had a duty to her and her honor.

“I miss her,” Sansa murmured, one hand rubbing at her belly absently, “I miss her so much.”

“She missed you every day. If the Gods are truthful she and your father are in one of the Seven Heavens, and if the Gods are good they do not miss you for they are here with you always,” Brynden said as he stood up and helped Sansa up as well. Though she had tears in her eyes once again, she managed a smile as she took his arm and walked with him to supper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Quentyn ain't dead, he's (one of) our fireproof Dornishmen. Yes I know that GRRM has said that Targ's aren't fireproof but hey--the guy who designed GIFs pronounces the acronym wrong *yes I know what fight I just waded into with that* so GRRM is wrong here too. 
> 
> And was the Brynden meeting up to par? I was a little intimidated on doing it right or not so I was tempted to have a lot of it be off-screen after the initial "Hey this is your uncle! Yaaay!" bit but I figured after copping out on everyone in chapter 67 that you all deserved a bit more Angry Uncle Tully time. 
> 
> Let me know what you think and I hope that you liked this chapter!!!


	69. Dany, Wyman, Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so very much for continuing to read and support me as I write this story! All of the people who comment are so wickedly smart, it's like you peek over my shoulder as I plot things out and write, and you help me so much to stay on task and to not forget the dozen or so loose ends that I have going at any one point in time. I gotta say, without you guys this story would have fizzled and crashed and burned long ago. You are literally the best bunch I've ever written for. 
> 
> I will take a tiny moment to note: I know I bring a lot of my headcanons to bear as character's motivations and histories but I also rely pretty heavily on some characters being flawed narrators who don't know the whole story (either because they just don't know it or they've willfully decided something else is the real truth). I try not to get too meta about what a character does or does not know (though maybe I get waaaay meta and all of you just rolled your eyes at me for being blind about it), and try to keep their knowledge in their sphere. Thankfully we are reaching the point where a LOT of those spheres of knowledge are converging and so more characters will know more. Yes. 
> 
> ....*whew* sorry for the novel!
> 
> So in this chapter we have a visit from Dany, Sansa, and a Super Secret Guest Star who I cackle and grin about SO MUCH whenever I read him. I hope that you enjoy the chapter and thank you for reading!

Dany led Quentyn to where Drogon napped and slept, the next day, and showed him how to climb on the beast’s back. She wore a dress given to her by Tyene, her only other adornment being her favorite necklace. Her Dornishman was dressed in clothes that were a little too big for him, the robe being one she’d seen on Prince Oberyn’s shoulders once, and she blushed when she realized that Rhaegal had burnt off Quentyn’s own finery and left only ashes. Around Quentyn’s neck was his queer little pendant, similar in size and shape to the ones worn by Prince Doran and Prince Oberyn, but she did not ask him much about it. The necklace never left him, and it was not her place to question his every choice. 

Drogon whined and complained for a bit as she settled herself in front of Quentyn, but the dragon took flight easily enough despite his whining. Quentyn yelped in surprise as they lifted away from the ground, the wind rushing past them, but he clung trustingly enough to her waist as he sat behind her on the improvised blanket saddle. There had been no time to send requests for designs, and it had been too dangerous as well. Most dragonlore was stored in holdfasts and keeps across Westeros—a place where dragons had lived until two hundred years ago. The last dragons of Essos had died with Valyria for the most part. 

She had never known much about the Faith of the Seven, that religion being a minority of many in the Free Cities. Viserys had half-heartedly taught her some of the tenets, but the memory of a seven year old child was not one to accurately recall the pomp and circumstance of a Sept much less any of the scriptures. It excited her now to fly towards Sunspear, to walk to the Sept there and wed Quentyn while at the same time it filled her with anxiety. 

There was no true rush to marry, no urgings from the Dornish at least, but Dany knew that she needed to be well-secure in her new alliance before her advisers arrived. Before Daario arrived and whispered words into her ears about whatever he thought she should do. To quell those worries, Dany reminded herself now that she wanted to rule after her conquest. Daario was a tool of conquest, his mind focused and directed on conquering and subduing. Prince Doran, and his family to an extent, had minds focused on ruling. On making peace and keeping it—on alliances woven together to create safety and enforce unity. 

If Dany was to rule any part of Westeros she would need such a voice as Prince Doran’s. Daario would only take her so far as sitting in the Red Keep, as paranoid and half-mad as so many Targaryens had been over the centuries. Quentyn would bring greatness to her rule, a solid and supportive rock against the crashing seas. She of course did not share these thoughts or words with him, he did not need to feel used after being sweet and kind to her. He had his own kind of bravery, too, she decided as Drogon banked into a spiraling descent towards one of the courtyards of Sunspear. Months ago when he’d done such a thing in the mountains north of Meereen she’d thought the dragon was trying to kill her and had screamed bloody murder at the beast until Drogon had leveled his flight once more.

Quentyn merely hung on, his arms wrapped around her middle and his forehead pressed to the nape of her neck. If his knees shook when they finally dismounted from Drogon’s back she did not mention it, only taking a little of his weight on herself when she took his arm. There was no one yet outside to greet them as there had been when she’d first arrived, but then she’d given the denizens of Sunspear plenty of time to adjust to seeing a dragon in the skies. Soon enough a servant hurried out to them, followed quickly by Princess Arianne who curtsied deeply before smacking Quentyn’s shoulder. 

“Running off in the middle of the night, with no word at all. Brother, we thought you’d gone petting dragons and been eaten by one. Perhaps though,” there was a sly teasing smile on her lips then, “they’ve not been the ones eating. Do try to be a bit more gentle with Queen Daenerys’ fair skin, it shows your enthusiasm more than a Dornishwoman’s might.” Quentyn’s blush was rarely visible but now it burned bright on his cheeks, and Dany was about to tease him for it when she caught sight of a tall blonde man who stood a far way back from them. A dwarf was at his side, wearing Dornish clothing despite sharing the tall man’s looks. Princess Arianne caught the direction of her glance then and motioned the two men forwards. 

“Queen Daenerys, please meet my husband and goodbrother. First we have Prince Tyrion of the House Martell,” the dwarf gave a small bow at the introduction, “and Ser Jaime Lannister the Kingslayer. I had told them to stay inside the palace until a more relaxed introduction might take place but…it seems that not a single person of Tywin Lannister’s blood is capable of obeying direction.”

It was Dany’s turn to have weak knees at the sight of the Kingslayer. Viserys had told her of the man—the man who Viserys had idolized as a very young boy, the man who had secretly taught Viserys how to hold a sword and swing it, the one who had let her brother caper about Queen Rhaella’s chambers in the white cloak of the Kingsguard, the one who had often made excuses for Queen Rhaella so she might avoid the court and her husband and even her children. The man, Viserys also bitterly recounted on many occasions, who had failed to defend their brother Rhaegar’s wife and chlidren. Most of all, he was the man who had murdered Dany’s father, the only man alive who might possibly know the truth of that action. She knew the words she was mandated to say by courtesy, ones she’d grown rusty with before arriving to Dorne and spending time with the ever-wary Princess Sansa.

It is a great pleasure to meet both of you, she was supposed to say and give a queenly nod to each man. She was supposed to nod at least—but her neck remained stiff and straight. The blood of Tywin Lannister flowed strong in each of these men, an echo of Viserys’ voice shrieked in her heart but in that madness she remembered something else. 

The blood of Aerys Targaryen flowed strong in her, and people forgave her for it well enough. 

“You are well met,” she settled for, the more formal greeting remaining stuck in her throat, “Princess Arianne might you find something for my betrothed to wear? I am sure also that you would like to introduce him better to your new husband, just as I am sure that I would like to speak alone with Ser Jaime for a time.” Quentyn looked at her uneasily, his eyes riveted on her in such a way that made her sure that his thoughts tracked to Drogon. The dragon had settled down to clean himself, needling and scorching his hide to remove the scent of wool and human. She shook her head and kissed the edge of his jaw before stepping forward to take Ser Jaime’s arm.

There was little her hosts could do but comply—she could not force them save with the threat of remembering such a slight when she actually could do something later on. It was better to acquiesce now and maintain a cordial atmosphere. At least for now—there was no telling how she would feel after her conversation with the Kingslayer. 

* * *

 

Lord Wyman had thrown the Greyjoy whelp into the cells, little pity in his heart for the murderer of Eddard’s wee boys, but the girl the Boltons had given up as Arya Stark—in exchange for their filthy hides not being removed to decorate their own banners—he had treated as his honored guest. She was little older than a mere girl but his granddaughters had told him of what had happened to her. Horrors upon horrors had been done to the steward’s sweet daughter. It was why he’d thrown the Boltons’ men out into the oncoming Winter without much more than thin cloaks and worn boots spread between them and an armful of firewood. Roose and his murderous bastard he imprisoned also but without the benefit of blankets or much food.

Wylla and Wynafryd had stood with him the week after he’d taken Winterfell, supporting the frail Jeyne Pool between them, and watched the huddled men shuffle out the gates of Lord Stark’s home. Those found to be flayers walked without shoes—his Wylla’s idea, but a good one. The Starks had not only showed the Manderlys kindness in centuries past but they’d united their bloodline with his house and Lord Eddard had even given his eldest daughter a name that had been brought to the Starks by the Manderlys of old. Them that crossed the Starks would answer to him, and this round was merely warm-up.

Those men that made it to the Wall would face the Men of the Watch—and choose to join or die, choices that were out of the hands of mere stewards to the Warden of the North’s bidding. Wyman’s place was to ensure that House Manderly remained loyal to House Stark, and he was not one to make decisions that rightfully belonged to the Starks—not when there was a living Stark in Westeros. And as for the Lannister-appointed ‘Warden of the North,’ Roose Bolton and his son were currently chained in cells opposite the one occupied by the Greyjoy boy. Roose was a hardened man of the North, and in certain lights Wyman nearly understood the man’s reasoning, but his son was a vicious snot.

He looked forward to handing the boy over to the tender mercies of a grief-maddened Stark, and had instructed the healers to keep the prisoners alive but little else. 

As though summoned by the peace brought once again to the North, the self-proclaimed King of Westeros, Stannis Baratheon, came asking for Winterfell to once again bend the knee to an upjumped man of the South. The Boltons were to be surrendered to the Lord of Light’s pyres to burn their sins out of them, the man informed Wyman as they stood shivering before the gates of Winterfell, and the North would belong to Lord Eddard’s bastard until the young man chose a regent and forsook his claims once more. Wyman had resisted spitting, instead unfastening his own cloak and setting it about the shoulders of the solemn faced Baratheon. 

“Winter is coming, Your Grace, best keep the chill off while you can. Winterfell was, when there was one fit to wear it, ever faithful to the Crown. I cannot, however, stand and speak as Lord of Winterfell. I am merely castellan until such time as a Stark once again sleeps beneath these eaves.”

The dark woman from Essos, swathed in red even to her eyebrows, then murmured some threat or another. Something ominous meant to quail the hearts and wills of men, send them cowering to the dark reaches beneath their quilts and leave the candles burning brightly through the night. It reminded him of his grandfather’s bastard sister, a woman sent to Winterfell to coddle and swaddle Stark babes long ago. There were kernels of truth, amidst the tales and myths. 

“And have you no concern for White Harbor?” King Stannis said, taking his point from the woman in red, “I see you have your son and his family here, meaning they do not care for that place in your absence Lord Manderly. A poor showing it would be to give over Winterfell to the Starks while letting the North fester.” The words sobered the discussion, the smiles falling from many faces—smiles that had held up even in the cold and the cooler conversation—and Wyman put both of his hands heavily onto King Stannis’ shoulders, working his fingertips into the rich fur of the cloak he’d put on the man. 

“White Harbor was a gift of the Starks to my family. Just as Torrhen’s Square was given to the Tallharts, and as Barrowton was given the Dustins. What good are those boons to me should my Lord or Lady Stark go home to siege-ruined towers and fire-blackened chambers? A poor repayment for kindness shown for so long. King of the First Men your crown might name you, but I do not wish to cower in my castle before a King of Winter. Not in highest Summer and certainly not now. Ask Winterfell to bend the knee when you’ve a trueborn Stark to ask it of.” He’d held King Stannis’ gaze for a long moment after that and then broke it to allow the man inside. 

In the end, Wyman had given Stannis’ dwindling host some provisions but made it understood that he waited for the Queen of the North—and because the cold of the Northron Winter was for the most part unheard of by those in the South King Stannis had condemned his army to death by tarrying in the North. There was no room to pity the man through the Winter, not enough food either. Best return to the South while there was still time and an army still his to command. 

In truth it did sit badly with him to choose rebuilding Winterfell above those responsibilities left in his home of White Harbor, but it was not a weakness he would reveal to Stannis Baratheon. The man might have been able to free Lord Eddard, but had not. Wyman would not do him extra favors. Especially now, knowing what he did. 

News had made it to him, before the last roads North had become impassable, that Eddard’s pretty daughter Sansa had made it to Dorne in the arms of Prince Oberyn the Red Viper. On hearing the news, little Jeyne had softly spoken of her friend and that she feared for her still, but Wyman had comforted the girl during supper one evening. The Dornish were good to their women, the best in the Seven Kingdoms, and Lady Sansa would return with brave knights and warriors. The smile Jeyne Pool had given him did not reach her eyes but she at least nodded and let the subject drop. 

Wyman didn’t send food to Bolton’s bastard for six days after that—the seventh being holy he could not deny the bastard half a loaf of bread and cheese. He was not yet so craven as to throw that in the face of the Father, even as he believed the Smith to have worked the bastard’s fate long ago into solid steel. The Bastard of Bolton was a horrid creature, and Wyman promised himself to treat the boy as horribly as the Septon would let him get away with. The Septon he’d found before leaving White Harbor was a quietly militant little man—his studies focused on the Maiden and the Warrior, and thus he cast a unique eye on the treatment of the Bolton bastard as well as Jeyne Pool. 

The Warrior stood as protector of the Maiden, later becoming her husband as they became the Father and the Mother. To the man, whose small group of followers called the High Sparrow, it seemed that Jeyne was the Maiden to whom a Warrior would pledge his love and sword and life to. It worked well enough for Wyman, who wanted to secure the girl a good holding somewhere with a husband who did not want her to warm his bed or wet his cock. She deserved far better than all that—and by the word of the Warrior, her abuser ought to be pulled apart by horses. He knew that his granddaughter Wylla had already picked out some fine beasts for the task, and they only awaited Lady Sansa’s arrival to do it.

* * *

 

Sansa had wanted to ride back to Sunspear rather than lurch her way up onto a litter, but both Maester Myles and Caleotte forbade it immediately. The festival of Cen Rhoy was only days away and Oberyn had sent for the family to join him in Sunspear. At the sides of the litter, one she shared with Ellaria, rode Ser Daemon and Uncle Brynden. They spoke a little at the beginning of the journey but soon quieted when rain began to fall and the thick curtains were let down to keep the chill off of Sansa and Ellaria. The quiet might also have been because the two women took advantage of the privacy by kissing and caressing one another as they hadn’t in weeks. 

They were too focused on one another to continue speaking to those outside of their small word, and it was exquisitely delightful for Sansa to slip her fingertips down to Ellaria’s pearl and watch her lover shudder and squirm—her mouth open wide in silent pleasure. So often Oberyn or Ellaria would do the same to Sansa, and she could see now why they did it—her paramour’s skin was covered in the lightest sheen of sweat, her face touched with a faint blush that swept from her forehead to her collarbone, and Ellaria’s legs clamped around her hand showed her why Oberyn so delighted by bringing her pleasure in this manner. 

The journey was several hours, and the rain grew only harder as their litter bearers slogged along the road to Sunspear, and they made good use of that time alone—away from children, away from servants, away from even Oberyn who loved them both so dearly. As Sansa clapped a hand across her mouth to stifle a squeak the other smoothed over her swollen belly, eventually reaching down to clutch at Ellaria’s hair as the woman returned one of Sansa’s favors. 

Hers was not a path her mother would have plotted for her, she mused as Ellaria drifted off to sleep later, but her mother had wanted her happy and free. If laying in the semidarkness of the curtained litter, her quim still quivering and clutching at nothing from Ellaria’s attentions, was not happy or free then Sansa did not think she would ever walk a path closer to them. She was content here, and that was enough. As sleep came for her as well she sent up a prayer of thanks to the Crone for the gift of Wisdom, and one also to the Smith for taking up his forge anew on her behalf.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how did you like hearing from Wyman? I made him a bit more go-getter here because of reasons, just the same as I cooled some of Arianne's Robb Stark-esque fire because of reasons. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and let me know what you think!


	70. Dany, Varys, Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dany and Jaime have a talk. Varys is his old Varysy self. And Sansa gets a weeeeddddddding giffft. Yes. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Dany walked at a sedate pace, her hand delicately resting on Ser Jaime’s arm. She’d seen the golden hand and did not stare at it after working out why he had it. This man had done or said something, again, and had lost his hand for it. She burned with questions that neither her advisers nor the Martells had truly been able to answer. No one in Westeros knew, in truth, what had motivated this man to slay her father—no one save Jaime Lannister himself. 

“What was the life you imagined for yourself when you were fifteen?” The question took him aback as they walked in through a little garden that was obviously designed to be beautiful in Summer and Winter alike. Little canals, no more than a foot deep, had several inches of sand at their bottoms. In Summer the sand would swirl and dance in the gullies of wind that played over the courtyard, and in Winter the rains would fill the canals and leave them sparkling and rippling beautifully as raindrops pelted down into them. She’d seen something alike to this garden whilst flying towards Volantis, except the canals had stretched half a league or more and were thirty feet wide and deep if they were an inch. 

Dany wondered if those ruins had belonged to the Rhoynar or to the Valyrians, and wished for a moment that she might lead a life where she discovered such things. Instead, she was the Mother of Dragons had other responsibilities were hers to take up. Other paths for her to martyr herself upon.

“What I imagined, Your Grace, turned out quite different than what I lived.” She resisted frowning up at him for the flippant, deflecting answer. Instead she asked again, a sterner tone to her voice this time. 

“I imagined high honors to be settled upon my shoulders, the love of a beautiful woman mine forevermore, my name immortalized in song, my deeds ones boys a century from now will play at with sticks. As I said, little of that came to pass.” Dany thought about the whispered confessions she and Quentyn had shared through much of the previous night, between kisses and other sweet pleasures, and lamented to herself that there was so much pain in so many lives. When she’d been ruled and abused by Viserys she had thought that hers was a life emulated by no other, her suffering the pinnacle of broken dreams and injustice. 

“What came to pass instead? I must ask.” If he was scared of her reaction to his answer, Ser Jaime did not so much as tremble. Even Ser Barristan had had grudgingly good things to say about him in terms of his bravery and his skill. 

“I fucked my sister, enough so that she told me her children were mine but our love has burned away in our trials. If you look at Tomm, the boy, you can see a copy of the sweet boy I once was I suppose. My honor is more of a laughingstock than my brother’s reputation as a womanizer, and they spit Kingslayer at me as though they would have chosen differently that day—though I do suppose it means the life of Jaime Lannister will be one of songs, if only bawdy tavern songs.”

“Kingslayer. Jaime Lannister. They’ve been said so often to me, together, that your name somehow seems empty without the epithet,” Dany said softly, turning them to a shaded walk that led to a courtyard that faced the sea. She quite liked Dorne, and would have liked to make a life here if she’d somehow been fated to live amongst the sands. Sunspear would always hold a special place in her heart, as would the Water Gardens. 

“So I cannot deprive you of something to give your name a bit of meaning beyond being a son of House Lannister.” He stilled, looking down at her strangely before she urged them forwards once more. She wanted to look at the sea, for all too soon the sunny days of Summer would be well-past them. To his credit, Ser Jaime walked along with her easily enough. 

“Tell me of the war. You alone were in King’s Landing as it raged, and the words of others do not carry that same certainty beneath them. Tell me of the day you slew King Aerys,” she said. She did not make mention or note that Aerys had been her father, for it would only cloud Ser Jaime’s judgment of what she said. No one would tell her, and those who tried did not know the whole of it. Dany wanted answers, she wanted to know what the people would think of and be reminded of as she swept across Westeros to retake her throne and her realm. 

And so Jaime told her. He told her of Aerys’ murder of lords and ladies, sons and daughters of Great Houses and Small Houses, smallfolk and knights. So too did he speak of her mother and her suffering, and of the paramour her mother had kept who was Rhaegar’s blood father. Dany resisted letting tears fall, not wanting to cry for grief on what she’d wanted to be her wedding day. 

Then her companion turned his words to the last days in King’s Landing, the bitter defeat that Rhaegar’s armies had experienced causing panic in the streets of King’s Landing—and that when Lannister troops stormed through the opened gates, King Aerys II Targaryen had ordered the city burnt to the ground around them. Ser Jaime had been seventeen, not much older than Princess Sansa and a few years younger than Dany herself was now, and had had terror flow through him. 

“I remembered my vows, the ones spoken when I’d been knighted not the ones I’d given to Aerys as a Kingsguard. There was of course the underlying fear that my father would have me executed since I had not fled Aerys’ service to return to Casterly Rock and live as the heir. It was selfish, then, when I put my sword through the king’s back but it was also done in duty as a knight. Even if I was somehow killed for it, I reminded myself that I was saving the city. I was terrified.”

Dany did not look up at him even as he finished the awful story. She’d known for some years now that Viserys had told her the innocent lies a seven year old boy is told to protect him from his father’s rages and abuses—but this was another thing entirely. In none of the tales she’d heard did she hear that the city had been rigged to burn and writhe in the ashes. There was such bleak conviction in Ser Jaime’s words, though, she did not doubt him.

It made her ashamed of when she would leave cities in ashes, but it also hardened something in her heart. The people of Westeros needed someone to defend them from the caprices and whims of kings—but when they’d gotten one through a broken oath they had balked. She wondered if the Usurper would have been labeled Kingslayer if he’d been the one to take her father’s life. Barristan’s words of tempering mercy and justice needled her mind as she turned them once again towards the large courtyard where Drogon waited for her to pet him before going inside. 

“Prince Oberyn has told me that such epithets and nicknames are common amongst those who make themselves notable in these lands—but that also there are names that are passed down in honor and duty within Houses. You are Jaime Lannister the Kingslayer for you’ve made yourself notable in that fashion. I cannot remove such a mark from you, for I cannot change the mind of every peasant in Westeros.”

Ser Jaime, who did not tense as they walked into the courtyard and Drogon chittered and growled his pleasure at seeing Dany again, did not tense or hesitate at her side. He was brave—idiotically brave, and there was still a thread of nobility in him despite all odds. 

“Give me your sword,” she said, stopping a good ways away from Drogon and dropping her hold on Ser Jaime’s arm. Something in his jaw clenched and twitched, the apple of his throat bobbing once. He was not wholly stupid, it would seem, she thought with passing happiness. The blade he handed her was not as intricate or beautiful as he would have thought it to be, but it certainly denoted its owner as one of wealth. 

“Kneel.” Ser Jorah had told her of why he fled Westeros—he had sold slaves, and the law of the North was that whoever spoke the sentence had to swing the sword. He had fled out of cowardice, in part, but he had also run because he did not wish to see the disappointment on the face of Lord Eddard as a squire brought the greatsword Ice to the Lord Stark. Dany was glad she was not attempting to take any heads—her punishments were meted out in dragonfire, mostly, not by the edge of a sword. 

She tapped his right shoulder, honoring the sword hand he’d lost, and spoke clearly to those who might see her doing this.

“I ask you, Ser Jaime of the House Lannister, to take up the sword of Westeros. You are relieved of your duty of Kingsguard, you are relieved of your duty to House Lannister, you are relieved of your duty to any lord or lady of any of the Seven Kingdoms of the Realm. May you and your Order be ever ready to dispense justice to the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and stand where no others may speak or act in judgment of you.” There were gasps from a few of the people watching but Dany’s focus did not fade.

“Do you swear by all the Gods to defend the people from evil that is above the Laws of Men but still beholden to the Gods?” His eyes were wide as he stared up at her and it took him a moment to reply. 

“I do, Your Grace,” he said. 

“Do you so swear that your sword will draw the blood of Kings should those Kings betray their people?”

“I so swear.” There was quite a crowd beginning to form in the periphery, and Ser Jaime was looking a bit green around the edges now.  

“And do you swear to hold this vow sacred and obey it faithfully despite any temptation?”

“I do swear.”

“Then rise and take up your sword and oaths. Rise as Ser Jaime Lannister, also known as the Kingslayer, now also known as the First Sword of the People of Westeros.”

* * *

 

Varys carefully chewed on the mixture of ash, clay, and antidote before swallowing it with a mouthful of water and spooning another helping of the preventative measure into his mouth. Two spoonfuls before, another spoonful after, and lots and lots of prunes. It wasn’t completely necessary, so should he be caught off guard it would not mean his end should one or two steps be omitted, but it was a nice way to ensure his own continued bright health. It would be worth it in the end, he well knew. He was the Master of Whispers, after all, and so knew more about the world than even most pirates did. And pirates knew a great deal indeed.

He had not wept when the Lannisters had dragged the corpses of Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon from Maegor’s Holdfast, nor had he gagged at the sight of what had been done to their sweet mother. No he had kept his mouth shut and added a few names to his mental list of those he would take revenge on. The first, of course, was the wizard who had cut him and a few others along the way but the grim satisfaction that had glittered in Tywin Lannister’s eyes had earned him a space—one he shared with Robert Baratheon who had grinned with sated bloodlust as he looked at the body of Princess Elia. 

The wizard now wished he was dead. Those who had wronged him on his way to Westeros were also disposed of. Robert Baratheon had run afoul of his own lifestyle and it had been truly glorious to know the man died hating himself. It left, of course, Lord Tywin as the next person Varys had promised to revenge himself upon. Princess Elia had been kind to him where few had, and she had trusted him to try and get her and her children out of the city. He had failed her, and the Lannisters had visited doom upon her. 

If the Lannisters had been smart, and really Tyrion should have perhaps known but sometimes the man couldn’t see past his own very short nose, they would have made it very hard for Varys to contact Prince Oberyn. Instead, they had made it very, very easy to do so and now at every small council meeting he and the Martells took their revenge. 

Goblet by goblet by goblet.

* * *

 

Sansa tried to wait patiently in the solar that Oberyn had bid her wait in. Visenya had been fussing and so Ellaria had taken the babe to their own rooms. Oberyn’s voice had been incredibly excited and he nearly bounced on his feet as he’d spoken to them earlier in the day. A servant had come to fetch him away from them at dawn, even though it felt that they’d just gone to bed—the celebration for Daenerys and Quentyn’s small wedding had lasted long into the night, everyone dancing and laughing. Even Sansa had been made to dance, supported by her uncle who towered over everyone else and his height gave him the advantage to lift her so she nearly came off her feet. 

In the predawn light Oberyn had muttered something along the lines of ‘finally,’ before he’d kissed them goodbye and walked briskly from the room. Now, in the middle of the day, she heard his footsteps outside of the solar and wobbled up to stand. It seemed standing was getting more difficult by the week and she was incredibly embarrassed to overlook the etiquette of standing upon a guest’s entrance. It was worse to have Oberyn or one of his daughters nearly pull her to her feet and she chose to preserve her dignity when she could. Arya would have laughed at her, but she didn’t care. Her husband's people indulged her whims with grace and ease, and her smiles came easier to her face when she was engaged in the rituals of courtesy and etiquette.  


Her heart skipped a beat when she heard a low whine and—and was that the rasp of claws on the stone floor? The babe inside of her seemed to wake up as she tensed, kicking her powerfully. Unconsciously her hand dropped to comfort and soothe where she felt what was probably a foot. It couldn’t be—Oberyn was mad, but he wasn’t _this_ mad. Surely she was hearing things in the midst of her excitement. Surely.  


“Sansa,” she jumped out of her skin when her dear husband slipped into the room, and her smile was jerky and twitchy as he crossed the room to kiss her. She couldn’t drag her attention from the door he’d just come through, where there were the scratches of claws on the wood of the door, and her breath came in shocked little gasps to the point that Oberyn soon urged her back to sit down. There was a boyish light in his eyes though when she met his gaze and a hysteric giggle burst from her lips. He’d gotten her a direwolf—a direwolf that she could train and love and keep. One to sleep at the foot of her bed as Lady had slept at the foot of her own, as Summer and Shaggy Dog had slept at Bran and Rickon’s feet. Her baby would know of the North even if she chose to remain in Dorne for the rest of her days, and the child might learn to walk while clutching at the thick fur of a half-grown direwolf--a true Stark.  


Her husband, once he’d made himself confident she wasn’t going to faint away, jumped up and opened the door. 

Half a dozen or more direwolf puppies darted towards her, their tiny jaws open in wide, canine smiles that she was sure would have terrified her if she’d never set eyes on such animals. Margaery had promised her puppies—but Oberyn had given them to her. She was just picking up a rusty gray ball of fur when one of the pups snapped at her hand and a child’s shout rang out across the room. The pup whimpered and then rolled onto it’s back until a second word was given. Sansa looked up to see the wolfherd and nearly dropped the puppy she’d picked up. 

She was very glad to be sitting down as she looked at her baby brother—little Rickon, who had grown at least a foot since she’d last seen him in Winterfell, was standing a few feet into the doorway with his hands in the scruffs of two enormous direwolves. Sansa gasped and let the squirming puppy go as he gave her a shy smile. 

“Rickon? Rickon—Rickon,” she said, trying to stand and failing in her shock. He gave a stern word to the wolves and then bounded towards her to throw his arms around her. The babe in her kicked and wiggled as she took huge gulping breaths to keep from weeping uncontrollably, her arms going around her brother’s small shoulders to hold him tightly. When he patted at her belly and murmured something in a tongue she didn’t recognize she lost the battle against her tears. 

“I thought you were dead, I thought you were murdered,” she sobbed, rocking back and forth as the direwolf puppies gamboled at her feet. Shaggy Dog padded over and pushed his cold nose into her shoulder and neck, the other direwolf cautiously coming to curl up at her other side. It was difficult to hold Rickon close on account of her huge abdomen but she managed even if the boy did squeak a bit with how hard she hugged him

“Sansa, Bran is alive—and Summer too. At least they were. Theon didn’t kill him, even though he wanted to. But he did kill—he brought the Ironborn and killed Maester Luwin, and Ser Rodrik, he broke his word to Bran,” Rickon mumbled, his words accented like a wildling’s. Once it might have horrified her, but no longer. Whatever had brought him home to her she would and could forgive. Robb was gone, as were Mother and Father and Arya, but Rickon was here. Sansa cried harder, her sobs ragged even as Oberyn cautiously settled behind her on the chaise. His scent, sweat and iron shavings, spices and smoke, brought her a measure of calm. 

“Thank you,” she managed to say when he put a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know how you found them, but thank you.” There was a chuckle behind her and Oberyn pressed a kiss to the side of her neck. 

“Thank the Smith, my darling, I sent merely for the direwolves and with them came your brother. Would you have me leave you alone for a time?” Part of her did not, fearing it to be rude somehow, but she knew that if his sister somehow walked in during supper he would ask to be alone. Sansa nodded but freed one hand to search out his own, squeezing it tightly and reeling it to her lips to kiss his knuckles. Within a fortnight she had not only an uncle but a brother returned to her as well. She took Oberyn’s advice, as he sauntered out of the room, and sent a prayer of thanks to the Smith for reforging her brother’s fate. 

“I miss Mother,” Rickon mumbled into her shoulder and Sansa remembered when she’d been small and held close to a red-haired woman whose belly swelled out huge from her body. The tears had been tapering off a little until then, and returned in fresh waves as she kissed his curly hair and cried. 

“I miss her too, Rick, I miss her too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I'll be over here, dodging pitchforks and beer bottles...*flees* Let me know what you think!


	71. Gilly, Cersei

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll talk on s5e6 at the end of the chapter. I wish I had a different chapter plotted here, but this is what I have. We've got more Gilly, and a look into what is going on in Highgarden. I hope you enjoy the chapter, thank you for reading.

Gilly was increasingly put off by Sam, though she was sure he did not mean to do it. At least she reminded herself of this as he talked down to her about so many things regarding his lands. His words came out sharper more often though, where they had once been innocent and sweet. The strange man with black skin, Alleras the Sphinx, was kinder to her in her stupidity. Standing at the front of the ship and holding her baby boy Gilly let tears slip down her cheeks, the trails concealed by the rain. Sam thought her stupid, and he was moving too fast to take the time to teach her not to be—and she could not run to catch up to him as she’d once run with her sisters as a child.

“We will put in at a port near the mouth of the Torrentine, and then visit House Dayne in Starfall. The Torrentine’s a river,” Alleras’ voice was low as he came up behind her, “then after that we’ll go to my mother’s holdings at the Hellholt,” he continued he leaned against the railing next to her. He was tall and stringy compared to the men of the North that she’d met at the Wall, and his curly hair was shorn close to his head with a pronounced peak at the hairline. 

“You have names like they do around…home…” she said softly, listening to the creaking of the ship as they cut across the water, and the hush of the rain as it fell. Alleras grinned and turned to lean on the railing, letting the raindrops fall on his face. Gilly hugged her boy closer, trying to ignore how the droplets clung like a crown of dewy ice to Alleras’ hair. He looked like one of the spirit folk that her mother and sisters had said fought the dead during the Winter—thin and lithe, protected by the char of the Gods from the touch of the white death. 

She had not realized how much she missed those who knew the North until she blinked and the rain had settled into her companion’s hair. The illusion was gone, and with every moment she was farther and farther from the land that had borne her. The tears threatened to fall again. 

“There was a man, surrounded in books yes but with his head far-afield from those books—”

“A maester, I know what a maester is,” she mumbled, not moving from her spot even as a bubble of annoyance grew in her heart. Alleras merely flicked a smile at her, similar to the one that she remembered one of the Crows giving to one of her sisters years ago. It made her face feel too warm for her skin despite the rain.

“There are men and there are maesters, my lady Gilly, and this is a man I speak of. He was laughed at a lot, but he wrote of my people’s lands and of yours. They are not so unalike, he found. My mother’s home crowns a bluff in the desert, twisting sands obscuring it entirely sometimes during high Summer, and the heat is enough to burn a man’s brain and leave him dead before sunset. I’ve heard that the cold up North during Winter is enough to burn a man’s hands and feet, is that true?” Gilly fidgeted at little with her boy’s swaddling, suddenly shy. Her father had gotten both little fingers and an ear from the Crow that had gazed sweetly at her sister. He’d worn them in a little satchel at his hip with a dozen other such trophies. 

“Yes, your nose and ears too if you’re not careful. One of my aunts, um,” she’d learned, and learned quickly, the terms that those of the South found most pleasing about her family lineage, “she lost the tip of her nose to the cold. Grandmother used her as an example about dressing properly during the Winter.”

There was a wry twist to Alleras’ grin then, as though he understood what she spoke of without having seen it. He moved towards her, fast like a wolf, and pecked a kiss to her cheek—or at least he tried. His movement had Gilly turning to face him better and her lips met his for a quick moment, not even enough to turn into an actual kiss. She immediately blushed when he withdrew, the color turning brighter as he tipped her chin up to softly press his mouth to hers again. 

“But—Sam,” she murmured when his lips left hers, kissing her forehead now, “I’ve got Sam.” She would not become some twisted parody of her father, she never wanted to be reminded of that man again. Not ever if she could help it. 

“You speak truth, sweet lady, but I am to be yours if you ever ask it. For now forgive my pleasant accident, I am to be a friend to you before I am anything else.” The way he phrased it made him sound like he knew her fate, and such a secret was one that even the Old Gods guarded jealously for themselves. Gilly bit her lip and tried to tell herself to keep her distance—to remember to keep her distance, as Jon Snow had kindly told her. Out of all the advice or words she’d been given by the southron people she’d met, those ones had been the most heartfelt. 

People south of the Wall aren’t kind to women, Gilly, he’d said, and they’re less kind to babes who’ve no father. I was lucky, I had a father. Your boy, he doesn’t—not one you can talk about. Jon Snow’s eyes then had been serious and slightly mournful. Gilly had nodded and started making up a story with the Lord Commander about where her son had come from. She was from the Gift, her boy’s father was her sister’s husband, and when she’d fallen pregnant she’d fled—it was close enough to the truth that it was easy to remember but it carefully obscured just where she’d come from.

Her silence had Alleras talking half a step away from her, though he did lean forward to look at her son’s face for a moment. 

“What will you name him?”

“I won’t name him for a few months yet. Bad luck to name a child before his time. But I think—I think maybe Aemon, Maester Aemon was so sweet to us when Sam brought us to Castle Black.” The old man wouldn’t live to see her again, she knew, but he would live on in her son. Alleras had a pleased look on his face as he nodded at her words, giving her a short bow and then walking back towards the stairs that led down to the innards of the ship. Behind her there was a step and Gilly turned around to see who it was. 

“Gilly? What—what was…?” Sam’s face was pinched with hurt, his voice high with confusion and pain. She couldn’t hold his gaze, then, looking down at her son for a moment before scurrying back below decks to the small cabin that had been made hers. In truth Sam made her feel ashamed and stupid when once he’d made her feel proud and worthy. She’d loved him once, but was rescuing her son and taking her South enough to sustain that love through all the trials of life? Probably not, and she didn’t want to admit that aloud just yet.

* * *

 

The old bat Olenna watched her like a hawk and so she made sure that her movements were impeccably innocent. She was a little rusty at it but the skill was one she’d never lost. Her betrothed was not so fresh faced as Loras Tyrell was, and his infirmity was one she held only barely a semblance of patience for. In truth she missed Jaime. She missed him in the way that she missed her mother. It was a resigned but angry way to miss someone—for he was parted from her forever by his own free choice. His rakish smiles, the ones that had driven her mad a thousand different times and a hundred different ways, and his careless wit deprived of her forever. 

Instead that whore from Dorne would have him and ensnare him in such ways that Cersei would never be able to as her position as Lady of Highgarden—he would marry a princess of House Martell and have awful brown haired babes by her. Their dark little eyes would mock her, should she ever see them, and so whatever happened Cersei resolved to never look upon the little monsters. She would, after all, be Lady Tyrell and certain exceptions must be made for such a woman. Cersei detested all of it and her primary goal was to allow none of it to happen. 

She would rid herself first of Willas Tyrell and his hateful younger brother. After that she would have the time and space to dedicate herself to the task of freeing her brother from the clutches of Arianne Martell. Poor Jaime. Jaime who had never had to watch his back, and so he did not mince his words unless absolutely constrained into doing so. Otherwise he was blunt and honest, his clarity and confidence refreshing to her as she’d fought to hold her head high as Robert proved himself every the inch the man he’d been as a youth. Her dear Jaime, who had looked to her guidance even at their birth, he needed her.

The Tyrells were formidable—not every single one an aged terrier such as Lady Olenna, but all of them were sharp save Loras who was not entirely on par with the rest of them. She cursed herself for convincing her father to marry her to Willas, for Willas was intelligent. His vices were few, and those that he had were innocent. He went to the Sept regularly, to the point where she felt her knees creaking as she worked to appear more pious and holy than he. She’d not spoken the seven supplications to any of the Gods for years, but after a few weeks she was able to say them in her best tones. 

Cersei did not pray, of course, but she did look for openings into the Tyrells as well as her betrothed. She need only manufacture something that was scandalous enough to irk her father into remembering his own father’s shame and her escape would be made. It had taken decades to hone her abilities and wits, but she had not survived Robert Baratheon only to be bested by a cripple and his grandmother. 

She could still vividly recall the first time Robert had hit her—really hit her. She’d denied him the use of her body while his cock was still soaked from a whore’s cunt and his breath still rank with ale. The son that had come months later was trueborn, and she’d given him a name from Robert’s mother’s family. Galden Baratheon, destined to become Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and many other wonders. Cersei had worked for weeks with Jaime to hide the child away from Robert Baratheon, and her brother had found her a babe of similar age who had died the self-same day she’d bid her son goodbye. Her brother had kept a good accounting of her son until he’d left King’s Landing before Robert’s death.

The child, man now she supposed, had been lost in the interim and she had no name to search him out by. His only claim would be his resemblance to Robert which, Jaime had said on the boy’s fifteenth nameday, was striking and her own word. Cersei had sent the child away to free him. If her children were to survive the Baratheons they would need to be all lion as she and Jaime were and she’d known what she would have to do in those dark days after faking her son’s death. They were especially dark because she’d realized why Lyanna Stark had run. If Cersei had been the quailing kind she would have run from Robert too, as far and as fast as she could with little Galden in her arms.

For now though she chose to stalk her betrothed through the crowded market that surrounded Highgarden, looking for a leering smile on his face or a hand that lingered somewhere it didn’t belong or even a glance that fell too long and too intently to be an accident. She would not wed another Fat Bob, but neither would she wed this sniveling whelp, this wilting rose. Cersei of the House Lannister was destined to marry a King, and she’d had her fill of those. 

So far she’d put off the wedding by demanding extravagance, but that would only go so far. The Tyrells had deep coffers, and Lady Olenna likely panted in the night thinking that she would share grandchildren and great-grandchildren both with Tywin Lannister, and she knew that eventually she would not be able to dance her way out of this. Jaime would call what she was doing wriggling, but this wasn’t the case. Wriggling was for peasants and courtiers. Dancing was for queens, and Cersei would murder someone with her own hands before she was reduced to something less than a queen.

Even as she felt anger writhe in her chest as Willas Tyrell stopped to wipe the tears from an orphan’s face, Cersei tried to counsel herself to patience. She would escape Highgarden. She would free Jaime from the hooks that Dornish whore would work into his skin, and take him and Myrcella home to King’s Landing—and then they would deal with the bitch from Highgarden, Margaery Tyrell. From then on they would live, she decided, as the family they’d always been fated to be—and she would have Jaime retrieve Galden from where he’d been stashed, and she would rule through the simple peasant boy he’d grown up as.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I do hope you enjoyed this turn from Cersei and Gilly!
> 
> Second, I want to make it explicitly clear: I do not approve of what the showrunners did to Sansa yesterday. I will be boycotting the remaining 4 episodes of this season because I was literally too anxious last night to sleep and only dropped off at about 6AM. 
> 
> Third, I will never use a woman's suffering in the manner that D&D did. I will not include a rape of any kind towards any of the characters that are in FFTIA's rotation. D&D's actions are completely out of line and I will not emulate their example, you have my word. 
> 
> Fourth, I wanted to write something else as this chapter but if I didn't get this written I probably would have succumbed to writer's block. Next chapter is plotted to be the celebration of Cen Rhoy, and I wanted to be happier and more together to write it--so this chapter couldn't be moved.
> 
> Fifth, I do love all of you so very much for reading, reviewing, caring, and loving. If I don't say it enough, I'm sorry, but you are the reason that this story has developed into something so large and comprehensive. I am so proud to have written it, and even more proud that you are my readers. 
> 
> Let me know what you think of this chapter, or take a moment to vent, or whatever. Much love, talk to you soon :)


	72. Sansa, Doran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So last chapter we had Gilly and Cersei, two very different women in very different situations who are both in their own way taking control of their lives. Yes. 
> 
> In this chapter we have the long-awaited Cen Rhoy. Or, well, some of it. I was happily writing along and realized I was about to write a behemoth of a chapter so I took a break and did a bit of editing to give you this! It is from Sansa's POV for the most part and then also from Doran's towards the end. 
> 
> Tell me how you like it!

Sansa woke up early the morning of Cen Rhoy to the grizzling of Visenya, soon to turn to whimpers and sobs that she be fussed over and fed. Already cooing a platitude to the girl, Sansa wriggled out of Oberyn’s arms and out of bed, taking a moment to sit up straight at the edge before standing up. She smiled as she picked up the babe, unlacing her shift just enough to allow room for Visenya to latch on and then pacing out of the room to the solar. The sun wasn’t up yet, though given the cloudiness of the day before it might take a while even after sunrise to get properly bright. 

Leaning on the arch leading out to the balcony she watched Sunspear as a few lights started flickering in windows and street corners. When she’d left the city several months ago it had been hustling and beautiful, but now it gleamed with pristine avenues and decorations. The streets were being painted today a brilliant blue and Tyene had told her that everyone would take special care that they remained clean through the day. The buildings were all just as bright and cheery—reflecting the gem tones that she’d learned the Dornish liked best, including a heavy amount of turquoise and saffron that almost clashed but did not. Delicate paper streamers fluttered in the early morning breezes, their white tails stretching to paint the whimsy of the air.

The colors on the whole were like the meeting of the sea against the sand, a reminder of how Princess Nymeria had come to Dorne from the sea and married the first man who would have her.

Once Visenya had had her fill she dropped off into a nap, snoring lightly against Sansa’s shoulder as she cuddled with the infant. Her daughter’s breaths were even puffs of air against her skin, the girl’s fingers tightly curled into the neckline of Sansa’s shift, and Sansa basked in the feeling as she watched the sun begin to paint the eastern horizon with lavender and rose pink. 

“Sansa?” Ellaria found her not long after she’d finished feeding Visenya, and her footsteps were soft as she walked up next to where Sansa leaned against the archway to the balcony. Sansa turned her face for a kiss and for a fleeting moment she thought about putting Visenya back in her bassinet and retiring to bed, holding her lovers close to her. But then however a puppy’s whine cut through the air. Turning to face the sound Sansa grinned when she saw her baby brother standing at the door of the private study that was attached to the solar—they’d put him up in the room because he wanted to be near to Sansa and she’d wanted to be near him, but there were limits and boundaries to be respected even in Dorne. 

“Good morning Rickon, did you want to hold Sissy’s hand for a moment?” He wouldn’t say Visenya for some reason, they’d found out in the last few days, but instead called the baby Sissy. It was harmless and so Sansa did not bother correcting him. She had her brother back, and it would take a lot of actual misbehavior from him to make her scold him somehow. 

“Yes,” he mumbled, walking and then running towards her as she sat down Ellaria kissed the top of her head and ruffled the scruff of the small direwolf that had followed Rickon into the room before leaving to dress for the day. Rickon very gently opened one of Visenya’s tiny fists and let her fingers grasp tightly around his own afterwards, his little face very serious as he did so. Sansa awkwardly leaned forward and kissed his forehead, seeing the lines of his face that were Lady Catelyn’s as well as seeing the harder ones that marked him as a Stark of Winterfell. 

“Are Catty and Tally going to hurt you like Sissy hurt her matke?” It might have shocked Sansa once to hear the words of wildlings coming from her brother’s mouth, but since her marriage to Oberyn she’d begun learning what amounted to two new tongues. That Rickon had picked up bits of whatever his companion spoke was not surprising to her now. 

“They might. All babes might hurt their mother, but Maester Caleotte thinks I shall be alright. There will be pain, and I will probably yell at Oberyn a great deal according to Ellaria, but then you shall have two more little nieces to help me look after.” She smiled at him but his returning grin was a little forced, so Sansa decided to drop the subject and go to something he would enjoy better. 

“But we are soon to break our fast with Prince Doran, little brother,” she said sweetly, “and need to be dressed properly for it. Will you be alright with that or would you like me to help you?” Her brother shook his head, fidgeting in the sleeping tunic Tevira’s assistant Aelaenor had wrestled him into the last several nights. Rickon allowed Sansa’s handmaidens to wash his clothing and give him a bath but little else. None of the Dornish robes or vests would he suffer the wearing of, preferring his little fur cloak, gray woolen leggings, and knitted short tunic. His hair fell all around his small shoulders in unruly curls, the locks burnished to bright copper once more with the hard, lavender scented soaps of Dorne, and his fleeting grin at her revealed where his milk teeth had fallen and where the new ones grew in in places. 

“I like Prince Doran,” he said, “he gives me sweets. He says it’s so I can’t run away from you again.” Sansa giggled, moving to hold Visenya with one arm and ushering Rickon closer to her to she could kiss his forehead once more. He was but a boy and did not understand the musings of hedge witches and maesters, or that her goodbrother referenced the idea that a rich diet led to such ailments as gout. She did not need to let her brother know that Prince Doran had a moment’s fun at his expense. He would need to learn much more of the harsh realities of the world, but she knew she could temper those lessons with kindness and goodness. She was not Queen Cersei, and never would be like such a woman—either in pain or strength.

“Is Prince Doran going to go to the festival? Will Ser Areo help him with his chair?” Sansa paused for a moment, her mind now going to Doran’s slightly pained eyes as Quentyn had spun around in the bright orange robes of a newlywed the previous evening. If Doran was able to, he would have worn white and walked with the family. Instead, he would take an alternate route to the Sept of Fhoserrio and meet the procession at the ornate copper doors. Rickon seemed to sense what she was thinking, nearly reading her mind in a way. 

“Shaggy can walk softly, he hunted rabbits when Matke—when Osha and me were on Skagos. Prince Doran can ride on his back!” Sansa smiled, the idea certainly one she would let the boy bring up. Rickon was sweet, still, despite the wildness that his guardian Osha had instilled in him. Sansa did not fault the woman for it—she was glad only to know that her brother had survived on account of such knowledge. 

“You should offer him the option, sweetling, it is very thoughtful of you,” she chose to say. Rickon gave a cry of delight and, in a surprisingly tender and gentle motion, freed his hand from Visenya’s, before trying to flee the room towards Doran’s chambers—the direwolf pup that had accompanied him scampered alongside him step for step. Tevira, who was just entering with a slight yawn, barked a command at both of them in Rhoynish and Rickon skidded into a turn towards the room they’d put him up in. The pup stood his ground for half a second before Tevira shooed him as well with a questioning lift of her brow. Sansa laughed and stood up, giving her handmaiden a nod to help Rickon first and then attend to Ellaria and Sansa later on. Visenya whimpered in her sleep and curled tighter against Sansa’s chest. 

“Lord Rickon, you’ll not go racing about in your smallclothes like an escaped cat,” Tevira was already lecturing as she followed her charge into his room. 

“I’m not a cat, I’m a wolf!”

* * *

 

They spent the morning playing Dornish children’s games with Rickon and the girls, and then in the middle of the day they walked in the markets of the shadow city. Sansa and Ellaria walked arm in arm as Oberyn held Visenya, the children all running around them as they made their way through the alleys and winding streets. Those who came to market their wares wore their finery for the evening already, the women wearing circlets of flowers in their hair when they could not afford to wear copper or gold. 

Passing by a silversmith had them stopping as Oberyn quietly inquired in Rhoynish—the tongue that was so far proving the most difficult for Sansa to master—about sigil necklaces. Sansa flushed and held Ellaria’s arm a little tighter when it became obvious that Oberyn’s curiosity stemmed from the babe that she carried, though the silversmith made his way to her and gave her his hands to kiss. She willingly gave him hers, after, and he spoke to her in Dornish Valyrian that he hoped she had an easy birth of a beautiful child. His family, attracted by the sound of Oberyn’s exuberant voice, came out from their little home and swarmed around them and Sansa knelt down to give her hands to the little ones that circled her. Her face started to hurt from how wide her smiles were, and she was lightheaded with laughter by the time they left the stoop of the silversmith.

Rickon, who had parted very reluctantly from his wolves but had refused to relinquish the presence of Osha, held onto Oberyn’s leg tightly as they walked. He looked often between Oberyn and Sansa and then back at Osha who wore her hair loose down her shoulders. The woman would gesture at him, almost signs that Sansa could follow and interpret the meaning of, but these were only moments long as Rickon would look away from her and obey whatever she’d told him. It worried Sansa a little, but then again the wildling woman had escorted her brother from Winterfell to Skagos and been clever enough to make her way here. Sansa owed the woman her respect, and she endeavored to freely give it. 

They bought necklaces and circlets for all the girls, giving favor to the merchants of the city, and Sansa surprised Ellaria by giving her one as well. The copper shone brightly against Ellaria’s dark hair, the curled fingers of metal twining into her lover’s hair to secure the circlet as well as adorn it. After spending a bit more gold here and there with gifts for the rest of the family who had stayed in the keep, they returned to the marble hallways of the palace. Sansa was about to follow Ellaria to get ready for the evening when Oberyn held her back for a moment. 

“My love, let me give you something. It is just for Cen Rhoy, but I would like you to wear it,” he said softly, drawing a white sachet from where he’d hung it around his neck. Sansa rested a hand on her belly as she waited for him to open it up, a little nervous but also flattered. Oberyn had given her jewels and necklaces, letting her build a store of jewelry that would last a lifetime and be given to one of her daughters, but this felt different. 

Out of the little sachet Oberyn poured what looked like a pool of silver into his cupped hand. Then, with delicate fingers, he picked out a chain and revealed a length of woven silver, steel, and gold—one end tipped with a sapphire the size of her thumbnail. 

“Quentyn, Trystane, Tyrion and I drew lots this morning and I won. After there is a wedding in the main line of the Martells the married princess wears this to Cen Rhoy. Given that there are four my nephew suggested that we draw blindly, given that it is not fair to pit our wives’ claims against each other over a piece of jewelry.”

“Oberyn this is not merely je—”

“I know, my love, I know,” he said with a smile as he laid it on her head, hooking one end to her braid and letting the woven metal rest on the part of her hair. The sapphire was cold on her forehead at first but started to warm slowly. 

“This is the only piece of Ny Sar that Princess Nymeria smuggled with her that was not sold, lost, or stolen on her journey. She wore it when she wed Lord Mors Martell, and it has been worn by a Martell princess on the night of Cen Rhoy ever since.” The length of metal seemed to weigh a hundred pounds all at once and Sansa made to take it off—surely someone of Martell blood deserved to wear it far more—when Oberyn gently took her hands. 

“She was not a warrior in the way that Obara fashions herself as one, but she understood who she was. She knew her strengths, and those of her people, and played them as she was able. Sansa you are more alike to her than many women that I’ve ever known, Dornish or otherwise.The Gods wanted you to wear her favor tonight, and I need no other gift from you than this.”

Sansa blushed and twined her fingers with his, the weight on her head lessening as she got used to it and what it symbolized. 

“It isn’t fair that my gift to you is your gift to me,” she said, letting him lead the way to their chambers to change for the grand procession that would take place later on. Oberyn’s smile was infectious and she easily grinned back at him until they reached the door to their chamber—and their smiles both faded at the apparent yelling match going on inside. As was his habit Oberyn opened the door and went inside first—should there be an issue, he did not want Sansa to walk into it blindly. 

“No. No, no, no, no,” were the only words that she heard as Oberyn went inside, the voice Rickon’s as he yelled, “I won’t!”

“Lord Rickon, please it is traditional! And the color goes so well with your hair—”

“No! No, no, no, no—NO,” he was nearly screaming now, and Sansa rushed in to envelop him in a hug, pushing past Oberyn as she did so. Her brother flung himself into her arms and started sobbing as she gingerly backed them towards a lounger to sit down, and once she’d seated herself her brother crawled into her lap and babbled on—half in wildling and half in Andaii, but she caught the gist of it well enough. Looking up she saw Tevira holding a little turquoise robe while Ellaria was dressing her girls in the white that denoted that they were not the direct objects of celebration for the evening. 

“Don’t let them make me,” Rickon sobbed, his small fingers clutching at her dress, and Sansa remembered that he was not far from his toddling years. She did not hum under her breath as she might have once done. 

“Rickon, what is the matter? Tevira found that robe from among Prince Doran’s old things, do you not want to wear such a handsome garment?” he shook his head, sniffling and miserable. 

“They’ll come after me, because I’m a Stark. You—you’re safe, Sansa, you’re a Martell. But I’m not—I’m not safe, I don’t want to wear it. Please don’t make me,” he whimpered, his words coming in odd bursts rather than full, coherent sentences. Sansa smoothed her fingers through his hair and wiped his tears away. 

“Do you want to wear white, like Doree and Loree?” gradually his tears slowed and her brother nodded, his eyes flicking towards where Dorea and Loreza were already finished getting dressed. 

“Tevira, did my turquoise dress get packed when we left the Water Gardens?” her handmaiden gave her a quick nod, her mind not fully on Sansa’s words as she probably thought of where she could get a white tunic for Rickon, but the other woman was present enough to answer Sansa’s questions. 

Those who the festival celebrated, newlyweds and newborns of the previous thirty moons, wore a mixture of turquoise and orange. Those of truebirth wore solid orange or turqouise while those of bastard birth wore garments of the same colors but with white sleeves. Heirs took on mantles, dresses, and tunics of turquoise, and non-heirs wore orange. The rest of the festival goers wore white or gray according to their wealth. They had planned on Rickon wearing turquoise for he’d been ‘reborn’ due to his reappearance with Osha, but now the original plan was the one they would need. 

For reasons known only to her youngest brother, perhaps her only brother, Rickon did not want to present himself as an heir to Lord Eddard Stark—and Sansa could think of doing nothing other than respecting his wishes. She well knew how it felt to be dressed and tossed about like a doll, she would not treat her brother in the same manner.

* * *

 

It was not the words of his brother or goodsister that caused Doran to allow himself to be lifted up onto the direwolf’s back—nor the need to impress his gooddaughters Daenerys or Myrcella. In the end it was little Rickon Stark’s hopeful face as he commanded the beast to sit and then lay down, the animal happily panting as it looked about the room—as harmless as a trained hound. The plan was ingenious, actually, and allowed him to attend the festival as he hadn’t in years. Usually he met the procession at the Sept of Fhoserrio, having traveled there by alternate streets on a fast litter, and kissed the hands of those who offered them to him. 

He decided, as the beast below him rose to stand and Rickon Stark clambered up into his arms to sit in front of him, that his mother Princess Loreza would have been flabbergasted and proud. He was calling his people to war for the first time in decades, and while he and Oberyn had tended the fires of their anger it was time to show them that he was as fearless a Martell as his younger brother. 

The other direwolves surrounded them, the pups whuffing and gamboling around the adult that he sat astride as well as the mother to the snarling little brood. 

If there were any spies in Sunspear to see him do this, he was glad they would have a tall tale to tell indeed. Now all he had to do was keep his seat and brave through the agony of walking a few steps from the wolf to his wheeled chair once they reached the Sept. Doran had the feeling that such sacrifice would be worth the rewards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are getting towards that bittersweet bit of Sansa and Rickon's reunion, but not quite. For now we are having a celebration! 
> 
> Also are all of you reading the lovely things that have been put up recently by TheSweetestThing (north-east-khaleesi over on tumblr), dark40rcechan, and thedarkeuphie? Because you should be! Also, give some love to the other huge-fic writer of the ship, AidansQueen!!
> 
> Lastly: thank you for reading, really thank you!, and I do hope that you get the chance to tell me what you thought of this chapter!
> 
> (also TommyGinger I miss your reviews! I hope you're doing okay!)


	73. Sansa, Arianne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kind words on last chapter, I hope that you enjoy this one! We have Sansa finally 'healing' as well as Arianne being pretty fabulous.

The streets had been painted in blues of lapis, cobalt, and turquoise and kept clean through the day despite horses and wagons, chamberpots and bathwater, and the walls of every house and shop were a riot of yellow, orange, red, black, and white. The people of Sunspear, along with those who had traveled from across Dorne to attend Cen Rhoy, lined those streets clad in white. Some wore it head to toe, their boots of palest calfskin, while others wore undyed grey tunics which looked white between the moonlight and the paper lanterns they held on fine strings. 

Sansa walked, as was customary, to Oberyn’s left with her hand held as a proper lady’s. Ellaria twined her fingers with his right hand, Visenya cuddled close against her chest in a white wrap. The dress that Sansa had sewn for the infant peeked out of the wrap, fluffy peach colored fabric richly adorned with embroidery fit for a princess. Their small party was not at the forefront of the family group though. That was reserved for the highest ranking Martell in attendance, which on this night was the Ruling Prince followed by his three children. Doran had been hesitant to bend tradition and head the procession as he hadn’t done it in years. She’d seen in his eyes—was he not stealing something from his heir, Arianne, by doing so?

She was glad that he had been swayed by Rickon’s stubborn approach, that though it pained him he would submit to such pain for his people. What they would soon do would bleed the realm as it had already been bled and, unlike those outside of Dorne, his people had not yet experienced loss during the War of the Five Kings. Tonight was the highest day of celebration for the Dornish and he owed this to them for their loyalty through the years. 

The land could ask for no better goodfather to the queen, she decided as she watched the curious play of emotions on Queen Daenerys’ face as they walked. They were in Dorne, and tradition dictated the walking order by rank in the Martell family, and so it was Arianne and Lord Tyrion who walked behind Shaggy Dog and Doran. After came Quentyn and Queen Daenerys, followed by the barely-arrived Trystane and Myrcella. The cheers that went up as the main element of the Martell family passed by were deafening, causing Sansa’s babe—or babes—to squirm and kick in support or protest she was not sure which. 

Also as she and her lovers walked by—the last of the Martells to be celebrated—the smallfolk released their lanterns. Some simply let go of the string holding the thing in place while others gave the paper a slight push upwards. Looking behind her the night glowed with the lanterns that floated hesitantly higher and higher, their lights flickering and merry as songs broke out in their wake. 

Anxiety might have followed, her old fears of crowds and rowdy celebration coming to bear, but somehow this was different. Those who had come to Sunspear for this night viewed Doran as their king, his daughter as their future queen—had they been ruling anywhere else but Dorne where the title of Prince or Princess was as highly valued and respected as the one coveted by Joffrey and Cersei and the whole monstrous pack of King’s Landing. No, instead of anxiety about her surroundings, Sansa easily gave smiles to all who called out to her in greeting or wished her well with her marriage. Oberyn gave her a running translation of some of the Rhoynish that the visitors from the Greenblood spoke, his face lit with a grin throughout. 

During supper she had asked what the Dornish had done before the Sept of Fhoserrio was built, and had been answered by Quentyn—though Oberyn nearly beat the words out of his mouth. 

“They walked nine miles North to the site of Nymeria’s landing, burning a huge pyre of sweet smelling brush and wood. The books all say that they would get so drunk the septons would have sons to walk with during the following Cen Rhoy.”

“Nine? Isn’t that—”

“Yes,” Doran had interrupted his son’s enthusiastic account of the early days of the festival, though his eyes had twinkled with rare mischief, “Prince Maron was the last Martell to walk his bride to the landing site, for shortly afterwards the Water Gardens were fully completed and he moved his wife into her chambers there. That palace is…how would you say it, Arianne?” Arianne gave a sweet smile to Sansa and Daenerys then before answering. 

“It is the foremost home of Martell princesses, built on the very land the first one set foot upon. They painted the city the first time afterwards to commemorate walking in the surf with the sand above, and according to the maester at the time Princess Daenerys walked barefoot with her little girl in her arms. Her feet were apparently blue for a week, and she refused to wash them such was her happiness.”

The present Princess Daenerys—her many other titles ultimately meant little here, but this one was at least fully truthful—had quirked an eyebrow up at this and said nothing. She was already clad in a wispy dress of turquoise and lavender that Sansa had helped Tyene sew and openly held hands with Quentyn even now—to the detriment of each of their ability to eat properly. Sansa shared a grin with Ellaria for she knew that though Daenerys was content with her Dornish prince the woman was not about to go walking through the streets barefoot simply to rise to the obvious baiting. 

Now Sansa almost wished she might be standing on the sidelines to watch the procession go by for surely it was a grand thing. Doran on the direwolf, the white of his garments shining brightly in the moonlight, followed by Arianne in turquoise. Tyrion walked next to her in brilliant Martell orange. Behind walked Daenerys and Quentyn similarly attired, then Myrcella and Trystane both in rich orange garb. They had arrived to the palace, breathless from the last push through the city to the stables, shortly before sunset and had hardly had time to wash the road from their faces. If Daenerys had a problem with the presence of Myrcella Martell she did not voice it, and for that Sansa was relieved. 

Though the words of House Targaryen were Fire and Blood it did not mean that every interaction must end in either—and Daenerys held a better chance as Queen if she understood that. There were times for strife, and there were times for healing—and tonight was the latter, Sansa reflected on as she watched Doran dismount from Shaggy Dog at the steps of the Sept. His back was straight and his chin was thrown high as he walked to the wheeled chair that was waiting for him, and her goodbrother made it without stumbling or wincing. 

Behind her the songs grew louder, the cheering raucous, and the skies sparkled with the floating lanterns. Ahead of her the doors of the Sept were open, the inside gloomy aside from the candles that sat on every horizontal surface and flickered as merrily as the Dornish on the streets. She squeezed Oberyn’s fingers as they walked up the steps, pausing to give their hands to Doran for him to press his lips to, and breathed deeply of the incense in the air. Ahead of them Arianne and the others already knelt before the altar of the Smith, one of seven Septons standing above them speaking the seven supplications to the God of Fates. 

She was grinning with joy and happiness by the time they emerged from the Sept, walking into the night market that sported hot honeyed bread, losennta almost too spicy to drink, and small trinkets were given to the children that ran about shrieking and giggling as their parents danced or kissed or told stories of Nymeria’s War. Looking around her, Sansa realized she could easily stay her whole life here in Dorne. The heat, in a few years, would hound her but what was that to the fact that joy reigned in her husband’s realm—not sorrow. When Bara and Nym coaxed her into joining one of the dances she let go of Oberyn’s hand without a trace of worry that doing so might leave her unguarded or unsafe. It felt wonderful to be so anonymous in her safety—that her wellbeing rested not on her high birth or her husband’s reputation, but upon the fact that she deserved such a thing, upon the fact that she was dancing in Dorne and not any other place on earth.

* * *

 

Arianne was drunk. She and Tyrion had entered, misguidedly, arrogantly, foolishly, a drinking contest that was famed across Dorne as something only those of pure Rhoynish blood could complete. The alcohol was drawn from a kind of cactus that had been brought by the Rhoynar when they’d come to Dorne, and it deceived the drinker into thinking themselves sober for far longer than they actually remained so. Drinking was one of the few things she admired about her unwanted husband—Tyrion could hold his wine and his ale ably, his size seeming to be his advantage somehow in the endeavor. 

“Come, husband, we need to—to—” she floundered for words, scowling about herself as Tyrion gathered up his winnings, “to gift this to the House of Respite.” It was difficult to control her tongue but she managed. One of Uncle Oberyn’s lovers had shown her the trick of it years ago, and she delighted in tricking Daemon into guessing at her level of intoxication on festival nights such as these. The thought of Daemon and his sweet mouth pained her for a moment but it soon passed as she took her husband’s hand and led him towards the House of Respite. The cobblestones beneath her feet attempted to play traitor, and she was glad of Tyrion’s steady waddle of a gait next to her. 

“My princess, taking off your slippers will spoil the effect you are tryi—trying to achieve,” Tyrion said when she stopped a few streets later, her fingers clumsy on the laces holding her shoes to her feet. Arianne shushed him with a lazy hand as she freed her toes from the cursed slippers—they were of a Norvoshi style that her mother had sent her, and did not quite fit despite how she treasured their look.

“My prince, there comes a time,” she said with stately dignity before hastily swallowing a rebellious yawn, “when the needs of the feet outweigh the needs of the head. Come, we’ve only a few streets to go,” she said as she stood up straight. The cold stones, painted turquoise and rubbing pigment into her skin, were heaven beneath her tortured little feet. It was also a bit easier to pick her way when her toes could tell her the truth. 

“What is this house that you’re taking me to? Why do all my forays with you end in drunken deceptions?” Tyrion was mumbling as they walked, his hand still in hers so they might lean on one another occasionally as balances wavered and eyesight blurred.

“They care for the veterans of the Stepstones, of Robert’s Rebellion, widows, orphans, grotesques,” she answered, her voice absent as she focused on how the cobblestone felt on the soles of her feet. It would be a good idea to sit down—no! She had to deliver her—their—winnings. It would make Father smile so sweetly—

“Not that there are many veterans of Robert’s Rebellion,” she added, clutching the bag of winnings tighter in her free hand. Their guards trailed them at a respectful distance but she still cast a speculative glance over her shoulder at them. Her father and uncle only picked the most trustworthy of Dornishmen as guards to the family, and not even Tyrion’s sellsword was allowed to accompany them during important events such as Cen Rhoy. 

“But—there were ten thousand Dornishmen, there were that many that served the Mad King,” Tyrion replied, his voice plaintive as he repeated the lie that had been served to the rest of Westeros. Arianne felt tears prick her eyes as she remembered Prince Lewyn’s laughing face. He’d looked a bit more like Father than Uncle Oberyn, she thought as some of those tears fell, but had had Uncle Oberyn’s spirit. His remains had been boxed up by the Butcher King without having been attended to by the Silent Sisters, and she still remembered her mother’s scream when that box had been opened before the Sunchair—the smell was one she’d managed to forget over the years, but not the look on her father’s face. 

The Baratheon emissaries had been reported as lost at sea, if she recalled correctly. The entire business sobered her quickly, her senses becoming sharper as she slowed her steps to tell her husband of what had been done. Oh how everything had been so well covered by the Butcher King’s cronies—Lord Tywin, Lord Jon Arryn, and so many others. 

“King Robert had his army execute every Dornishman they could find, labeling those who fled as cowards and snakes. Less than two thousand made it back to Dorne, trickling through the Dornish Marches in ones and twos. My father’s uncle, Prince Lewyn, was denied the Rites of the Seven in the aftermath of his death. It was,” she paused, tears still slipping down her face as her mind conjured the ghostly feeling of Prince Lewyn’s callused hands showing her how to break a man’s fingers should she need to, “it was meant to break the Dornish and put us in our place for having maintained neutrality for so long.” The white alcohol of the Rhoynar was fleeing her now, leaving her feeling wrung out and drained. Still, the bag of coins clinked in her hand.

“It merely banked the fire,” Tyrion whispered, staring up at her in the weak light given them by the moon and few torches. Arianne looked down into his eyes and nodded, a smile tugging at her lips when he squeezed her fingers once more before setting his stare straight ahead towards whatever their destination might be. 

Gradually her cheer returned as the smallfolk greeted her with smiles and plied her with losennta from their own hearths, and by the time she and Tyrion reached the House of Respite she was giddily drunk once more. The Septa who answered their knocks looked on them with a kind grin, speaking a blessing on them for seeing to the needs of their people, before ushering them from her stoop back to the street. By now one of their guards had run to fetch a crew of litterbearers and Arianne allowed herself to be ushered up into the contraption—laughing loudly at Tyrion’s drunken japes that this was becoming a habit between them.

The palace was quiet as they were admitted inside—some of the family and household still celebrating while others had returned and put themselves to bed quickly and quietly. It was damned difficult to sneak past occupied chambers and apartments while not creating a fuss, and Arianne was nearly going to congratulate herself and her husband on their cunning when she spun around a corner too fast and lost her balance. She had only the time for the barest of shrieks as a brazier full of coals fell on her, the coals bursting into flame as they hit her silken dress. 

“Guards—help, someone, please!” Tyrion yelled in a stricken voice, already shrugging out of his tunic and trying to bat the coals away from her skin and douse the fire her clothing erupted into. Arianne screamed at the heat and flame, frantically trying to do the same as her husband, not caring that she might be left naked in the corridor so long as she wasn’t burned—oh gods, sweet Mother protect her—

As the coals fell away and the silks burned to ashes it became clear that she was indeed protected—but that perhaps that protection came not from the Mother herself, but from perhaps Arianne’s own mother Mellario along with a century of Martell-Targaryen marriages. Tyrion’s whole expression was one of disbelief as his fingers gently lifted the tatters of her dress away from her, and he looked how she felt. 

They were both entirely too sober for this, Arianne decided emphatically as she stood up and awkwardly brushed the ashes from herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm going a bit artistic-license-y with how Prince Lewyn's 10,000 Dornishmen fared at the end of Robert's Rebellion. "But Ned wouldn't have allowed it to happen!" yes, well immediately after the Battle of the Trident, Ned set off for King's Landing and from there went to the Tower of Joy. This gives Robert plenty of time to order shenanigans like this and gives the Dornish a perfect reason to be really, REALLY outraged at the new monarchy--enough so that Jon Arryn goes over there to allow them to half-secede from the Realm if they'll just shut up about everything already.
> 
> So that's where that is coming from.
> 
> I do hope that you liked the chapter, please let me know what you thought though--good or ill! I love hearing from you all :)


	74. Jon, Tyrion, Tommen

Jon was bitter as he crossed the Neck down into the Riverlands. His brother had died here, betrayed by his own men and goodfamily. He couldn’t fathom how it might feel to be thus treated by those he trusted. It would kill him more surely than any blade, of this he was sure. The smallfolk he met on the Kingsroad were barely eking by even as Winter followed at his heels, and Jon swallowed back offers to aid them. The Wall was flush with men but not with supplies—he could not offer the respite of food and shelter in exchange for a lifelong vow, not this time at least. He had heard that the Riverlands had burned with the fury of the Lannisters, but hearing about it—Sam’s light tenor voice stumbling over the atrocities wrought here—and seeing it were different things altogether. 

No wonder, Jon thought as he huddled in the ruins of a farmhold one night, the Tullys were so eager to help Robb and Lady Catelyn. As he drifted off to sleep—lodged between his horse’s flank and Ghost for warmth—he knew that had his holdings been put to the torch and sword for actions not his own he would engage in war of some kind. When he woke the next day Ghost was gone—out for a hunt or a run, and so Jon ate a small meal of hard cheese and nuts before saddling his horse to begin his journey anew. 

The men of the Watch had wanted to send an honor guard with him, but he had declined. The Wall needed men, not to show any pomp surrounding their Lord Commander. He was theirs, chosen by them to lead, and he would return to them the same man who had left. He had not wanted, either, to worry about who might be left behind should he have to flee the King’s City. There was honor, Jon had learned over the last several years, and there was blindness. His father was dead on account of being blindly honorable, believing everything to be as he himself was in words and action. 

There were boys from these parts, too, and Jon did not want to put anyone to the sword for desertion. Though, he thought as he swung up onto his horse, desertion would not be unexpected after seeing the waste that the Mountain had left the Riverlands in. It was as he set out on the Kingsroad once more that Jon heard a pack of wolves howling, and his heart raced at the thought that they’d killed Ghost somehow. Turning his horse in a quick circle to see the beasts if he could, Jon saw Ghost ambling next to another wolf of monstrous size. A wolf with dark golden eyes that surveyed him keenly. 

“Nymeria—” he breathed before shouting the animal’s name. This was proof that his sister Arya lived, he was sure of it, and the leaves of the tiny weirwood sapling shook and whispered as he threw himself from the saddle and reached out trembling hands to the wolf. She was huge, bigger than Ghost who was huge compared to normal wolves, and there was dried blood on her muzzle from a recent kill. 

“Where is Lady, girl? Surely—” it stole over him like a nightmare then, an image of his father bending close to Sansa’s lovely direwolf who had been so well behaved, so well kept and protective. The memory of that last yelping whine echoed in his ears, and was not one he would forget. Jon swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, as he realized how soon the cruelty of the Lannisters had manifested against his family. Sansa had been a child, and they had forced Father to execute her only pet. Perhaps her only friend. 

Jon did not delude himself that Sansa and Arya had become friends or bonded over the loss of their direwolves. They had not been made to be friends, Sansa who fit in everywhere and Arya who fit in nowhere, and Arya had disappeared at the time of Father’s arrest according to Lord Manderly. Given the state of the Riverlands, their utter devastation and the plight of the smallfolk who had survived, Jon did not put it past the Lannisters to have killed Arya to ensure Sansa’s compliance in all things. Without their honorable father or their rebellious and willful sister, Sansa would have been without any allies within King’s Landing. 

That she had survived her time there was a wonder that even Jon could appreciate. He hoped that he found her well, that her child grew safely and was delivered easily. He appreciated his responsibilities with the Watch now, he was honored that his brothers had chosen him over so many others, and he could think on another’s happiness without pangs of regret or sadness. With Rickon, Bran, and Arya lost—and with Robb and Father dead—Sansa was the last connection. That last memory of how things were before. 

Jon would share a little time with her, as Uncle Benjen would share his time with Father, and then return to the Wall after making his appearance in King’s Landing. He would tell King Tommen that the Wall was well-stocked with men and supplies, and that no more could the Crown count upon the Watch to accept those deemed unworthy of life by the laws of Westeros. If the Crown wanted anyone dead, they would have to do it themselves for no more would the Watch take part in the dealings of the realms of Men. It was on paper fair and just—in practice it punished the Crown, the Baratheons and the Lannisters, for the abuse and murder of the Starks. 

After very cautiously petting Nymeria, not wanting to see anything through her eyes again somehow, Jon climbed back up onto his horse and set out going south. He would go as far south as he had to, but never again. He would, despite seeing the Riverlands in their disarray and the bizarre vision from Nymeria, never leave the Wall again. He made it a vow, nicking his finger and letting a few drops fall into the meager soil the weirwood clung to.

* * *

 

Tyrion truly enjoyed the few hours together with Jaime that he found in the days following Cen Rhoy—because of what had happened to Arianne, Queen Daenerys had decided to make a good effort to grow closer to her goodsister. Their days spent together naturally threw Tyrion closer to Jaime—and it was a treat to laugh as Jaime complained at the length of Dornish robes, the spice of the food, the sweet spice of sour Dornish wine, and the unending gray skies that opened with constant drizzle for days at a time. 

They did not venture out of the palace often—Jaime accompanying his new queen for the most part and Tyrion not being permitted to wander freely without a sworn sword present—but instead walked the corridors and admired the mosaics and frescoes that decorated the ancient keep. Occasionally Tyrion would share, in a hushed voice, what he remembered from the books of history at Casterly Rock—the war that Aegon the Conqueror had waged upon the Dornish only to fail at the cost of his best beloved sister, the war of the Young Dragon, the defenestration or murder of Targaryen loyalists put in charge of Dornish towns and strongholds. They were the most interesting tales he had absorbed as an unloved boy in a castle that echoed with remembered pain. 

“It is not so different a fate, I suppose,” he said one day, leaning against a railing on an upper floor’s balcony, amusing himself by picking out and noting the servants who had been instructed to subtly follow him and make sure he didn’t do anything untoward, “to being married to little Princess Sansa.” Jaime huffed a laugh, bending to lean on the same railing and giving a cheery wave to one of the little birds. Rays of sun. Whatever the Dornish spymasters called them. 

“She is not so little anymore, brother, in confidence or size.”

“I’d heard that women that far gone with child do not like to hear ought said as to their growth, but as always you are the braver man than I. And she was always confident, if she wasn’t she wouldn’t have survived what Joff put her through. You were too busy playing house with the Starks to have seen much of it.” They fell into silence then, Tyrion himself mourning the fact that he once again was married to a woman who wanted nothing of him. Arianne had not shared a bed with him since their wedding night, going so far as to have a chamber just off her solar outfitted as a bedroom. He had not dared ask her about producing an heir, especially not now that Prince Oberyn and his murderous ways had returned to Sunspear. 

The Dornish around them were much more serious these days. As the rains had washed away the paint of Cen Rhoy, so too had they washed away the somewhat oblivious nature of the Dornishmen of Sunspear. More and more Tyrion saw knights and warriors training in the grand plazas, and even women donned utilitarian leather armor as they sparred with spears and swords. Unlike when he’d acted as the King’s Hand, Tyrion had no allies here aside from his brother Jaime—there were no spymasters to consult with or be informed by, no sellswords to confide in or joke with, and no lover fair in his bed to run her fingers through his hair. Varys was busy in King’s Landing serving the Realm, Bronn was occupied with his wife and adopted son, and Shae had all but disappeared. 

“The war turned all of our worlds on their ears, little brother,” Jaime said, patting Tyrion’s shoulder before taking his leave. Tyrion heaved a sigh and motioned for a servant to bring him some wine, taking sips of the stuff as he wandered back to his chambers. His wife would not be joining him, too busy today—as she was most days—with helping Queen Daenerys train her dragons. The two women certainly looked exotic, tiny and fragile before the monsters that purred and chortled like a trio of pet cats. 

“A saddle,” Tyrion said to no one, swigging down the last of his wine as he went to the solar that was set aside for his personal use, “they shall need saddles. Queen Rhaenyra—hmm, no, Alysanne…” Once again shunned and unloved, he would prove himself useful to his wife and her chosen queen. He would earn it, since they were so unwilling to share it.  


* * *

 

Tommen watched with interest as Grand Maester Pycelle hesitated in handing him the raven’s scroll. He was sure that his grandfather was less interested and more annoyed at the delay. The war had wound down into stony silence as Westeros waited for Winter to come down on them, and meetings of the King’s Small Council focused now instead on surviving that winter. Both politically and physically. Tommen had been born during the beginning of a Winter, and had lived through another after that. This was to be his third—men like Grandfather and Pycelle had lived through fifteen or more. He hoped that might be the case for himself—Joff had only seen two Winters before he’d been killed, Father had only seen ten. 

“Your Grace, a letter from Winterfell,” the maester finally decided on saying as he handed Tommen the missive. The seal had been broken away by those who received and cared for the ravens, all Pycelle’s own proteges, and he’d never seen the script used by Lord Bolton—but at the same time, never had he been addressed…

_To the Golden Bastard Puppet and his Puppeteers,_ Tommen swallowed his shock at the greeting and managed to finish the letter before handing it to Grandfather. The man had been watching him closely and from the look of the old man he already knew the contents of the letter—or at least their gist. He and his Hand had been working on his expressions, for Tommen would need to keep his own counsel in the face of those who plotted against his reign. It was mutually understood between them that Grandfather’s health was not what it was even a few years ago, despite the man’s trim figure and imposing stature—Tommen would not be able to rely on the solid advice and experience of Tywin Lannister indefinitely. 

Grandfather read the letter, then read it again aloud before sighing and setting the missive aside. The words had been burned into Tommen’s mind after hearing them once again, and he swallowed back a question of what he should do. No—he was the King, and he would decide on the direction of their actions and response. He tried to channel Uncle Tyrion as he spoke. 

“As Lord Manderly has considerately notified us of, the Boltons have fallen in the North and the rebel Stannis Baratheon still runs rampant. Lord Roose Bolton rots in the dungeon of Winterfell, and given Lord Manderly’s tone,” he trailed off and Grandfather took up his sentence for him. 

“Given Lord Manderly’s tone we might not have a man worth ransoming. The laws of the North bend towards the ideal of ‘do in kind,’ and they have yet to take the head of a supporter of the Crown in return for the loss of Ned Stark. After what the Boltons and Freys did to the Starks—” Lord Tywin broke off his thought, letting the brief silence finish his point before he continued.

“The last living Stark is married to a Martell of Dorne, heavy with his child according to Lord Varys,” he said, “her hand was given to Prince Oberyn with the understanding that Ser Jaime Lannister and Lord Tyrion Lannister would serve as her regents in the North until the first son she bears comes of age. The demands the traitorous Lord Manderly makes here,” he said gesturing to the letter, “should be addressed when Winter breaks, but his hope for a return of the Starks is a vain one.” Tommen picked up the letter to read it once again, his mother’s teachings in the back of his mind as he decided that perhaps in some things she was not entirely misguided. 

“You are correct with that assessment, Lord Tywin,” he eventually said as the silence grew uncomfortable, “yet we must consider that though women are taught by the Faith to stay loyal to their husband’s House, Lady Sansa displayed a certain wantonness that shows she may need to be dealt with in the future. In the meantime, we can trust that that same wantonness may distract or even deter her from any plots hatched by her father’s bannermen.”

There were sage nods all around the table, even from Lord Tarly, but all heads turned to Lord Varys when he softly asked for Tommen’s attention. 

“Your Grace, your alertness is a wise course of action and will pay off well in the future. A new sect of the Faith that has sprung up in the northron Riverlands. They call their leader the High Sparrow and he made his way to Winterfell barefoot in the snow with a number of his followers. Lord Manderly keeps to the Light of the Seven and probably saw nothing amiss with inviting these…fanatics into Winterfell,” the Master of Whispers’ neck fat spread out like that of a frog as he shrugged, “what danger, he likely thought, of inviting laypeople of the Faith into such a scarred and broken place? The late Lady Stark kept to the Seven, as does her daughter—Lord Manderly likely thinks himself wise, after all who better to heal Winterfell in preparation for Lady Sansa’s return?”

“Princess,” Lord Tarly said in the moment of silence that followed Lord Varys’ question, “that traitor’s daughter is a princess as surely as His Grace is a king. You can bet your last copper star that Too Fat to Ride’s jowls shook with joy when news reached him that Lord Stark’s daughter had been made a princess by Dornish law. It’s not done much even in the Reach, but if Dickon had turned out like that soft piglet Samwell I would have named my Talla as heir. It’s a hateful choice, but better than a stranger to carry on the family legacy,” then Lord Tarly seemed to catch himself and returned to the topic at hand, “it may be Winter, and Lord Manderly might be settled into Winterfell for the duration, but we shouldn’t count on distance alone to keep Princess Sansa docile.”

Tommen didn’t nod, only clenched his teeth together and met Lord Tarly’s eyes solemnly. A king does not agree to every word spoken by his council, lest that council get ideas on how the Realm should be run, Grandfather had said several months ago, nor does a king disagree openly with that council. Then there were examples of both missteps, and how they had happened, how they might have been averted. Grandfather’s lessons were…comprehensive…but exhausting. 

The council meeting turned to other matters—the ever pressing concern of making sure that the Winter did not bring down a catastrophic famine, the rewards and punishments of high ranking nobles, officials, and knights, and all the matters that had been left unattended by the King these last twenty years. It was daunting, but Tommen felt more prepared by the day between Margie’s efforts to win the love of the people and Grandfather’s efforts to right the wrongs done to the Realm. _I will be a good king, as beloved as Jaehaerys I_ , Tommen told himself, _I just have to learn before the Stranger takes Grandfather from us,_ he thought as Grandfather tried to swallow a series of coughs.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got into a bit of a funk between very nasty hot weather (seriously, I want to WRITE about Dorne, not go there in Summer!) and work problems mixed with general disappointment with S5. BUT I AM BACK. YES. 
> 
> Have you been reading the fabulous fics put out by Aidan'sQueen, dark40rcechan, CaptainHazard, and MissMallora?? YOU SHOULD BE. 
> 
> So how did we like this chapter and seeing some of the goings on of everyone surrounding our little OT3? Let me know!


	75. Barristan, Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the chapter order up a little bit to push ahead a certain event...
> 
> and we are going to have some new faces around the Dornish court! Think back to when Dany was in Tyrosh...yes.

Winter storms surrounded them as they sailed, causing the fleet to hop from island to island in the Stepstones rather than risk breaking apart the flotilla on the open sea. The pirates and other outcasts of the archipelago might have otherwise attacked them save for the fearsome Golden Company that had joined them at Tyrosh—those of the extreme ends of the world had long memories, ones they took time to learn from. Though the famous company of sellswords had been founded to destroy the Targaryens, they still swore to uphold the contracts they made and were crossed rarely in that pursuit—and few paid better than the Archon of Tyrosh and the Triarchs of Volantis. 

After watching the raven fly out to the west, notifying the Queen of their progress, Barristan turned to look back on the fleet that accompanied them. It was the largest, he was sure, migration of people over the Narrow Sea in a thousand years—and would ironically enough land much as the last had. Abused by storms, composed of warriors and refugees fleeing slavers, heading to land in Dorne where a marriage would secure their position. Perhaps several marriages, Barristan thought as he glanced at where Talarro Maegyr paced like a restless tiger on the deck. Prince Doran did, after all, have an unmarried daughter. 

The young man had a head for war—suggesting that they rest for a short time in Dorne before sending the Golden Company up through the Stormlands while the Queen’s armies of Unsullied and sellswords traveled to the north of King’s Landing. When Barristan and Jorah mentioned that the walls of that city had never fallen to siege the Volanti nobleman had proven that his family were as warlike as they were ancient. 

“The navy of Volantis will blockade the city, and we shall await Daenerys of the Targaryen—her dragons will fly unopposed in the skies. There are four,” he held up a hand to count off the numbers, starting with his pointer finger, “ways to counter dragons. Rhoynish water witchery, the ashes of a flaming mountain, stupidly stubborn Dornishmen, and other dragons,” then reversing the fingers he’d counted with, “the water witches are dead, there are no volcanos where we are going, we are allies of the Dornish, and there are no other dragons in the world save those of the Targaryen.”

“And who will lead these divided armies?” Jorah had asked, surveying the map and tokens that had been spread out. Twenty thousand men—perhaps more, should the Dornish muster the numbers of men they’d put forth during Robert’s Rebellion—were not the greatest numbers to take against the great city of King’s Landing. Though the Queen’s dragons were small armies unto themselves now that they were big enough to actually fight, so perhaps adding twelve or fifteen thousand to their number to account for Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion. Having seen the defenses of the city, Barristan hoped that they would be able to successfully siege it. 

“And what is to be done should the Westerlands or the Reach take issue with our invasion?” he asked, remembering how both regions had thrown their weight in the last war let alone this current one. Talarro had waited for Barristan’s words to be translated into Valyrian, his eyes steady as he listened. Then, once Missandei had translated everything, he grinned in that frightening way of his and spoke in simple Andaii:

“Westerosi are not the only men to know of the Field of Fire, Ser Barristan.”

* * *

 

Sansa woke up with a bit of a moan, feeling like she was once again being punched from the inside. Oberyn and Ellaria stirred a little but ultimately drifted back to sleep when she stood up. She’d found that the girls calmed down if she walked around for a spell, lulling them back to sleep so that they’d allow her to rest as well. The magic of being with child was growing a bit stale, though a bit of the magical spark returned to her when she would think on the fact that she’d been free for nearly a year. Though she sometimes woke up sobbing, having dreamed of her poor lost or murdered family, the days where she fought awake and cowered from her lovers in fear were gone. 

“My little ones, please calm yourselves,” she murmured as it felt like one of them had stomped on her pelvis. Perhaps I should name one Ellaria and the other Arya, she thought as she had to sit down out on the balcony. After a few moments the sharp ache ceased and she smiled as she rubbed her belly. Within the next few days or weeks she would hold them in her arms, and Rickon would be able to be an older brother for he would be more akin in age to her daughters than he was to her. As it was she already felt that between Rickon, Doree, and Loree she had begun to truly learn how to mother children. 

She leaned on the railing, stretching one hand out into the softly drizzling rain, and closed her eyes. Rickon would become the Lord of Winterfell, the King in the North should their alliance with Daenerys go well, and she would return here to Dorne. They would live at the Hellholt with Ellaria, and Sansa would have three or four more girls and she would teach every one of them to love each other since she had so badly failed to love her own sister. The hesitant smile that crept to her face stole away into a grimace as her belly seized and rolled. 

“Shh, shh, it’s only the rain,” she said when she caught her breath again. It felt like her moonblood had come, only much stronger and without any of the other mess. With both of her hands on the railing to support herself, Sansa inched along the balcony to one of the chairs there. It was not pleasant to bend down to sit, but not having to support herself was worth the discomfort until the twisting pain had passed. Maester Caleotte had warned her that as she grew closer to the birthing bed these little aches could turn nasty and he was certainly correct. 

“Sansa?” She turned and saw Rickon, creeping out of his little room with the direwolf pups at his heels while Snappy and Shaggy prowled behind him. Her brother was half wildling, but he was her brother and so she reached out for his hand and brought him to sit with her. After the first day they’d been reunited, a day where she’d spent most of the day letting tears of relief and joy slip down her face, she and her brother had started to repair their relationship. Sansa endeavored to understand the mother he’d chosen in Osha, and he endeavored to understand that his nightmares were true and that Mother was dead and that Sansa was only his sister. It was a slow thing, but she savored taking certain things slowly now. 

King’s Landing had been so fast paced she was amazed now that she’d been able to keep up with everything, and it was only among the Dornish and at Oberyn’s side that she allowed herself to relax. 

“Will you read to me?” Sansa was tempted, for a moment, to decline. It was the middle of the night, and she’d only woken because of the kicks—kyrtaenos, the Dornish art of foot boxing, they were called by Ellaria—to her poor belly. But Rickon was her brother, the only sibling she might set eyes on again, and so Sansa agreed. 

“Only if you sign the story to me, just because Osha is away exploring the city this week does not give you license to fall behind on her lessons. How else are you going to be King in the North now that,” she tried not to stumble here, “our brother Jon has let all the Free Folk south of the Wall? Learn ninety two languages like the King Beyond the Wall?” Rickon frowned a little but ultimately agreed. After he playfully helped her up he put both hands on her belly and put his ear to it as well.

As he let go another pain had Sansa’s knees going weak and a moan escaping her lips. Rickon stared up at her with horrified, concerned eyes before dashing back into their chambers and knocking frantically at the door to the main bedchamber. As Sansa eased herself back to sit, whimpering all the way, she heard Oberyn’s sleepy voice ask what the matter was—and Rickon’s answer reached her ears as surely as they did Oberyn’s. 

“Catty and Tally want to come out,” he said, his voice high with alarm and fear. Sansa, though her own similar feelings, heard Oberyn half-ask a question at this revelation before realizing what his tiny goodbrother meant. His steps were quick to where Sansa sat, surrounded by direwolf puppies, and there was tight control in his every movement as he knelt in front of her and laced their fingers together. 

“I will fetch the maester, my love, I won’t be away long. Have Rickon and Ellaria help you back to our bedchamber,” he said quickly, pressing kisses to her hands and then to her forehead before he nearly ran from her side. The pain was just passing as Rickon roused Ellaria, leading the sleepy woman to Sansa so that she would be able to rest comfortably through her laboring. 

Rickon clung to her side like a limpet, even as she paced through the contractions of her body. Sansa was glad to have him, even if he did refuse to let Oberyn hold her hand as the minutes turned into a few hours. She tried her best not to squeeze his little fingers too badly, even as the pain increased as time went on. To one side Ellaria murmured sweet comforts, the other Rickon spoke tiny wildling spells of protection that he’d learned from Osha, and in her view Oberyn would blow her kisses if she were standing or kiss her knees or ankles if she sat or laid out on the bed. 

Maester Caleotte came, along with Uncle Brynden who briefly poked his head in to give her courage—

“Your mother never once lost a babe nor her life in bringing one, aye—nor Lysa, despite her woes. You’ll do just fine, sweetling,” he called before someone, probably Tevira or Aelaenor, wrestled him away from the door. Sansa managed a smile in his direction, gritting her teeth against another wave of pain. After Ellaria’s time giving birth she’d thought it a horrible mess of screaming and fear. This was slow building, inexorable in its march, and as the hours continued to crawl by she couldn’t stop the occasional bout of sobbing from escaping her lips.

As dawn broke Rickon relented somewhat in keeping Oberyn at bay, letting her husband settle in behind her so she could lean on him. Maester Caleotte, old and wizened as he was with his shiny bald head, did not leave her as they waited. Instead he directed soothing tonics be given to her and answered the few questions she managed to pant out. He reminded her of Maester Luwin, she thought as she rested her head back on Oberyn’s shoulder and gave Rickon’s small hand a gentle squeeze. Everything was still painful, even more so now than when she’d woken in the night, but there was a certain haze she was in now that allowed her a simple clarity of thought. 

“I don’t want to leave Dorne,” she mumbled, her face still tucked against Oberyn’s neck, “I don’t ever want to leave.” To her side Ellaria laughed and realigned their fingers to hold her hand better, and Oberyn gave her a sweet agreement even as she grunted and moaned as another contraction hit her. The confession gave her a second wind, though, and Caleotte’s murmurs of “almost there, Princess,” turned into hearty encouragements even as Sansa sobbed and begged for it to be done as her daughter’s head was delivered, shortly followed by her shoulders—and then silence from Caleotte. 

Sansa tried to sit up a little only to be held back by Oberyn as all eyes turned to the maester who stared at the babe that started to snivel and cry. So far Caleotte had been telling her everything, and she was alarmed now at his silence. Was there something wrong with her daughter? Had Sansa pushed too hard somehow and hurt her? Panic started to well up in her as the man opened and closed his mouth a few times before giving the infant a flabbergasted stare and handing her to Tevira to be cleaned a little. 

“Is she—”

“He,” Caleotte said, his voice shocked, “you’ve a son, Princess.” Everything in the room slowed then as all eyes turned to Sansa, and the tiny bundle that Tevira handed to Ellaria. A boy—the Gods had been good, she thought with a grin even as her body started anew in the task of bringing a life into the world. Ellaria pulled the swaddling away from the babe’s head, showing a mess of Rhoynish curls already rioting there, and Sansa couldn’t find it in herself to be upset that neither Stark nor Tully blood had found purchase against Oberyn’s own. 

“What will you name him, my love?” Ellaria asked, her voice soft and reverent as she gently handed the boy to Sansa. Tears, until then in response to pain, flowed down her cheeks unbidden as the slight weight settled on her chest. 

“Oberyn, his name will be Oberyn—the second of his name,” she managed to say, tracing one trembling finger down the side of his face. The boy grizzled and whined, wanting at least to lay on someone’s skin, and so Sansa reluctantly motioned for Ellaria to hold him once again. There would be time to hold both him and his sister soon enough. At least she’d thought so until the maester once again stared at another newborn babe in utter shock. Sansa had been dumbfounded, after cautioning herself and reminding herself almost daily that she would have no sons by Oberyn, that she’d carried not one but two boys. Two beautiful, healthy boys. Ellaria had a whimsical smile on her face, Rickon was bounding with energy, but it was Oberyn who drew her in for a hearty kiss.

“What is his name? Sansa, what—” when Sansa managed to take her lips from Oberyn’s she tried to think of her answer and settled on the whole truth for her brother. 

“I don’t know. He was supposed to be Talisa, or Arya—just as he,” she gestured to where Ellaria fed the first boy, “was supposed to be Catelyn or Ellaria,” a giddy bubble burst out as a laugh then, “I don’t know, but he will be as feisty as Mother and Uncle Brynden.” Oberyn helped her stand, once Maester Caleotte had examined the bloody mess that had followed the second boy and declared her safe from birthing fever, and they walked together for a few moments as Tevira and a few other servants quickly changed the mattress and bedding. Laying back was a relief, nothing more required from her other than to hold her babies. 

“How about Brynden then, my love?” Ellaria suggested as she curled up next to Sansa. Sansa was almost asleep, both boys nursing eagerly from her, but the suggestion brought a smile to her face. Glancing at Oberyn, who stood at the bedside with one hand on the headboard and the other braced on Rickon’s little shoulder, Sansa hoped he would agree for at this moment nothing could make her happier. When he gave a little nod with a bigger smile Sansa felt like she would melt a bit deeper into the bed. 

Oberyn II and Brynden, Lords of House Martell, the tenth and eleventh children of the infamous Red Viper. With these names on her lips, Sansa drifted off to a much-deserved rest.

* * *

 

The Golden Company was an interesting bunch—a mix, it seemed, between the best of Essos and the remnants of culture in Westeros. The ships the sellswords sailed in were of good quality, purchased from the poor bastards on the north coast of Sothyros, and the vessels bore names which were translated as Black Piss, Yellow Shakes, Fly Fever, Sleeping Death, Blinding Bite, and Marsh Scum. All names referencing the rampant disease of the land they hailed from. As they sailed through the Stepstones, having bartered onto one such ship (titled affectionately by the captain as the Bark Water), it felt prophetic to be heading towards Dorne. 

The men that had let them into their group spoke of the beauty of Princess Arianne—the smugglers of Tyrosh and Lys being great gossips, speaking in broad terms of the woman as though they saw her on a daily basis, and the men of the Company lapped up the stories like kittens to milk. After the secrecy of their travel to Dorne, they were each quite content to sit back and let others spin tales—the Gods knew that Father did not easily bend his will to tell tall tales, and it was only a matter of time before someone in Dorne or the Stormlands recognized him. Absence made ghosts of many men, but it did not wear down their memory and so it would be with Father. 

When Father had decided on the Golden Company as their means of travel to Westeros there had been some concern in his judgment—up until he brought up the fact that men who traveled with the Unsullied could recall decades of Westerosi history. It was certainly safer to travel amongst the sellswords from that point of view and it was exactly why they did it. 

“What will we do when we get there?” Father paused at the question, worrying his teeth together but otherwise remaining stoic. 

“Get you to the Queen, get you in your rightful place your Grace,” his tone was only very slightly bitter, as though he did not want their charade to end—even though he was the one who had made the decision for them to return to Westeros. Saying it was about time and mumbling about a good number of other things. Targaryens and princes and Starks—always a revolving door of topics with Father. Someday he would find peace, perhaps, but for now his sights were on the Dornish court and the Queen who resided there. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this! And that the birth wasn't too anticlimactic or otherwise subpar...I just wanted to let poor Sansa have those kids and have everything she wanted when she was young. But you know...this is Westeros, such things cannot last.
> 
> ...Anyway. Let me know what you thought of this chapter, good or ill! I will reply to comments on 74 when I get off work later tonight! Thank you for reading, tell me what you think!


	76. Margaery, Brynden, Gilly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Margaery! Brynden! the Qorgyles!

Margaery was glad of the fact that Lord Varys was a eunuch—it meant that no rumors could fly that the babe she carried was his, despite it being none of Tommen’s. A bastard to legitimize a bastard, she thought to herself humorlessly as she heaved up lunch. The child had to have as much chance for dark hair as possible—and thus she’d spent a great deal of time with the Master of Whispers finding a discrete solution to her problem. Lannister blood was too strong, and Tommen had a double-dose of it. Any babe he put in her would come out as yellow-headed as any lion, and while the smallfolk did not question Tommen’s legitimacy as much as they had Joffrey’s it would be a boon for him to father a child as dark as it’s ‘grandsire.’

She was prudent when dealing with the Spider, though, for his alliance was with the Realm always. Not the kings or queens he had seen come and go, nor the squabbles for power between the Great Houses. No, Lord Varys sought a realm united in peace and prosperity and anyone contravening those aims was disposed of. Grandmother had sworn that Joffrey had been poisoned by none other than Prince Oberyn Martell, but Margaery did not quite believe that. She saw the way that Lord Varys would defer to Lord Tywin, but how his eyes would slide away from the man at times. His loyalty was with the Realm, as abstract and insane as it was, and he had not faltered in all his years of service. 

“Your Grace, I have located a suitable retreat for you and the King when your time of laboring draws near,” he said sweetly in his soft voice. They spoke in half-truths now, for Margaery was a Tyrell and she felt the winds of change. It was said the Tyrells had led to the downfall of House Gardiner—be that as it may, the Tyrells had rarely been orchestrators of their own downfalls. Except now. The Mad King had had no escape route planned for himself or his grandchildren, and they’d all perished for it. 

Should fortunes go through a weather change, Queen Margaery Tyrell-Baratheon fully intended upon surviving it with her husband. If it meant whispering and speaking of ‘retreats’ then so be it. The marriage that her family had worked half a decade for, one where she reigned as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, gave her the power to avoid the fate of women and queens—and she would be a fool not to take hold of it with both hands. 

“That is not for some months, Lord Varys, but you are kind to think of us. Please make the necessary arrangements, though, for all three of my brothers were born early as was King Tommen. The little Prince might feel it necessary to uphold family tradition,” she said with a returning smile. Courtly politics and farce—there was a benefit in having a Hightower for a mother and a Redwyne for a grandmother. It made her feel a bit sorry for the fact that Queen Cersei had learned all of her tactics from men, both the tactics they employed and the ones that they thought women employed. There was so much more in the world than the fragile feelings of men, and people like Lord Varys were at least in agreement with her in this.

Her handmaiden, a saucy woman from Lorath who had previously served Sansa Stark, snorted a little and poured them more wine. She was not the most experienced at being a servant, there were certainly more skilled handmaidens who had perfected existing without presence, but Shae was a foil to Margaery’s own sauciness. Shae allowed her to practice her sweetness and innocence, to hone her performance rather than let it slip now that Lady Cersei had gone away to Highgarden to become Lady Tyrell. What a time she would have between Mother and Grandmother!

“Why, Queen Margaery, I do not know where this paranoia stems from but all shall be put in order as you ask,” Lord Varys said, sipping at the wine he was given. Margaery simpered and grinned, then, as Shae added a touch of water to her wine for her. 

“That is appreciated. Now, as for his Grace I think we should send for a Septon to teach him the finer points of the Faith. He has expressed a desire to be as plain and pious a man as Blessed Baelor, and surely after the war the realm needs such a defender of the Faith.”

“Indeed, your Grace, I shall send word immediately,” Lord Varys said with a deferential nod. They would get Tommen and herself out of King’s Landing should Stannis Baratheon somehow make his way out of the North and head for the capitol. She would not meet an end such as Princess Elia’s or Queen Rhaella’s. She was a Tyrell, not a Targaryen, and Tyrells did not perish in such ignominy.  


* * *

 

Brynden wandered through the gardens after being ejected from Sansa’s bedchamber-turned-birthing bed. Her voice was like her mother’s, and the sounds of pain she let out were a little too much to sit through. Had Cat survived and lived to see this day she would have been a true Tully hellion—in no way would Prince Oberyn have been allowed to remain in the room, and Cat would have soothed Sansa in ways that only a mother could. 

Parents were important in this world. They were gifted the task of raising children, children who could function and create lives of their own. His own parents had done so—though in Brynden’s eyes his elder brother had grown up less wise than a Lord Paramount ought. Still, they had been there, he thought as he caught sight of the little Targaryen woman the Martells had found. It was presumptuous and impertinent but Brynden made his way to where she sat under a covered pavillion. 

Her hair was loose and beautiful, not confined in elaborate Essosi braids as it normally was. There was a certain melancholy to her face that pained him to remember when her mother was a young woman. Sometimes Brynden wondered if he ought to have stolen away with her somehow after the Ninepenny War, if things might have turned out differently in Westeros. 

“Lord Brynden, I did not hear you,” she started to say when he sat down next to her. 

“Your Grace, I did not wish to disturb you. You are very alike to your mother, you know.” She looked quickly at her lap, squaring her jaw a little before nodding in agreement. Someone had told her, but their memory pained her. He hoped after this horrific war was begun and ended that there would be a little less pain in the world. 

“I do not think you take my meaning, Queen Daenerys. Queen Rhaella had true Targaryen coloring, the truest of the whole royal family when I was a boy. Old Jaehaerys II was on the blond side, as were his sons, but Princess Rhaella was a vision—hair the color of moonlight falling from her head in unruly tumbles, her eyes the color of Riverlander columbine.”

They were silent then for a long few moments, just listening to the sound of the rain falling as it would for the rest of the Winter here in Dorne. It was not for the best that this war would take place during Winter, but they could not afford to leave their ally in Essos nor could they afford to let Tywin Lannister spend the season regrouping and rearming his men. 

“My brother always told me that I killed her. That I was a child of the Stranger for having ended her life as mine begun.” Glancing at her Brynden saw that she was still young. Broken and reforged in the fires of grief and necessity, but she was little older than Sansa. While the others saw a hardy woman capable of ruling if provided the right circumstances, Brynden saw the truth beneath. A girl who had never had a home, one who struggled to find a home wherever she traveled only to fail. 

“My brother’s wife died in the birthing bed. Lord Eddard’s mother also perished there. Prince Rhaegar’s wife Elia nearly died both times she was led to it. It is wrong to blame the child, though.” Rhaella’s eyes looked up at him then, and without truly thinking about it Brynden reached across and tucked her under his arm. With a sigh Queen Daenerys accepted the half-hug, her fingers clinging to his tunic like a line thrown to a drowning swimmer. 

Rhaella’s daughter was as extraordinary as the woman herself, but for so long she had been deprived of feeling like anyone’s daughter. Raised by Prince Viserys, married into the Dothraki, and now the Mother of Dragons—all of this, and no one had ever thought to offer her even a small condolence for a loss she could neither remember nor fathom.

* * *

 

Gilly did not like the clothing that the Daynes had put her in. It clung to her in strange ways, though it was a sight easier to feed her boy now. She had worried that the small group of fighters sent by House Dayne would attempt to take advantage of her somehow in her new clothes, but they left her be. Their teasing had centered on each other, led in their games by Alleras and Sam. It was interesting to see Sam become playful as Alleras would sing songs from the Reach, trading tales he knew of the heritage of Sam’s homeland and Sam trading the same back to Alleras of Dorne and the Summer Isles. 

She was not fond of the horse that they put her on either, but it was a fair sight more dignified—she thought at least—than the set of cushioned planks that they had tried to convince her to sit on. They’d tried to convince her it was the best method of travel across the sands, that the weight of her baby would be lifted from her shoulders and the lad would be able to lay out fully, but Gilly wouldn’t hear of it. Sam had been frantic, trying to make her see his version of sense, while Alleras had quietly been gesturing for a horse to be brought forward. 

Nothing of their strange southron ways could prepare her, though, for the savage sight of the Stinger Keep of the Qorgyles of Sandstone. It was not so otherworldly as Starfall, no instead it was a keep she had perhaps once imagined early on in her travels South. Without the easy presence of the Dornish, Gilly would have begged Sam to pass it by no matter their need for supplies.

It was built entirely of red stone, with the Qorgyle scorpions outlined in black dragonglass that glittered eerily despite the rain that had begun falling on them. It was one of the newer keeps in Dorne, according to Sam, and was where one of the Lords Qorgyle had dropped hundreds of scorpions down upon a lord from the Reach who had dared impose a king’s rule upon the Dornish. The banners were soaked but still stood out in the wind, revealing more scorpions—black and ominous on the blood colored banners. She had braced herself for terrifying people to greet them, like the men of the Watch, but instead had been warmly welcomed by an aging woman introduced by Alleras as Lady Qorgyle. 

The elderly woman had apparently fostered Alleras’ father when he’d been young, teaching him how to use a spear and to brew scorpion venom poison to coat it with. If Alleras had not told them this, however, Gilly would have thought the woman a kindly grandmother who probably did kneeler things like sew pillows and gaze mournfully out of windows. Certainly many of Sam’s songs depicted such women, though Alleras’ did so far less. Lady Qorgyle had long white hair that she bound up in a single braid down her back, decorated with chains of dragonglass and bright red gems, and her hands were cool and strong as she grasped Gilly’s left arm to escort them into the keep. They walked slowly—both for the benefit of Lady Qorgyle but also for Gilly’s son who tottered along next to them on unsteady feet on her right. 

“And your father fairs well, child,” Lady Yleyn Qorgyle said as Gilly helped her up the stairs. Alleras perked up a little at this, stepping to take the woman’s free hand and steady her a little as she stubbornly climbed the stairs into the second floor of the keep. There was a twinkling light in the old woman’s eyes as she saw his interest. 

“Aye, and your mother too. Just starting to swell up with another little sandstorm—and she rode down the road from Skyreach with your father’s wife clinging to her like a lover.”

“Sand—”

“I know, little one,” there was a stern tone now as she corrected Alleras, and a warning look. Gilly knew that look—it was one that her sisters, aunts, mother, and grandmothers had worn when visitors arrived unexpectedly at Craster’s Keep. It alarmed her a bit, but the correction seemed minor on the part of the Lady of Sandstone. They walked in silence for a time, only her son’s babbling breaking the air, until a woman of middling age appeared on an upper landing. 

“Mother, a raven has arrived from the Hellholt,” she said, hurrying down to meet them and pass the note to Lady Yleyn. This other woman had thick black hair that was going to sleet gray, a few white hairs leading the way towards old age, and she wore it cropped close to her head as Gilly had never seen a woman do. Her clothes were also of a dark blue bordering on black in the candlelight, covering far more skin than Gilly had so far seen in Dornish garb. She was about to ask why she was never offered such options when Lady Yleyn handed the missive to Alleras. 

“Anything else of import?” the elderly woman asked as she did so, seeming annoyed at the interruption until her attention was drawn—as everyone else’s was—by Alleras letting out an undignified squawk as he read the note. It was high and reedy like that of a chicken. 

“She’s named me her heir! That mad Uller—Grandfather put her up to this, I’m sure of it,” he started ranting and mumbling under his breath about the apparent plot to keep him away from Oldton. Gilly managed to contain her giggles at his expense, but it was hard as he tried to tear at hair that wasn’t long enough to be torn at. When she saw the grins that stole briefly across the faces of both Qorgyle women she nearly lost her composure but hung on by a thread. Behind her Sam was asking questions about the letter that Alleras had received, a bit oblivious to the women around him who were nearly in a fit of laughter. 

“So it’s Alleras now, is it?” their mirth, and Sam’s confusion, were put aside as a tall man appeared from one of the upper floors. He was dressed in the same nearly-black garb as Lady Yleyn’s daughter, though his hair was light brown above pale skin. Alleras stiffened a little and met the other man’s eyes steadily. 

“Aye, ‘tis Alleras now, Lord Gulian.” The man, Lord Gulian, nodded and then made his reply. 

“Your father will be well pleased that you are settled, and your mother too.” It was a confusing conversation to be privy to, but the stiffness in Alleras’ shoulders changed from one of defense to something akin to pride. She had to admit it looked good on him, as it had when Sam had begun standing that way after rescuing her from her father’s holdfast. Something about his black skin in the candlelight, however, was more entrancing than anything she’d yet seen South of the Wall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long time without and update, but here we go! And yes, next chapter we will return to Oberyn and Sansa (and their million kids)! 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading, please let me know what you thought of this chapter!


	77. Tyrion, Oberyn, Brynden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So before you read MY story have you read the new story that's being posted by TheSweetestThing? Because you should. And after that read the story by MissMallora, too. And you'd best be reading also The Grim Bastards, I See the Stars In Your Eyes, and Vengeance is Ours. OMG so many good Sanberyn stories to read! Remember to leave kudos and comments, too, they're what feeds your local fanfic authors I'll have you know. Like nectar for hummingbirds!
> 
> ...ahem. Yes. 
> 
> So we have a few POVS in reaction to the birth of Sansa's sons, including Tyrion, Oberyn, and Brynden--as well as some update on the whole army-coming-to-Dorne bit. Enjoy!

They’d been told at breakfast that Sansa had been brought to the birthing bed sometime in the night, but other than this there was no other news. Tyrion had quietly chased his eggs and purple potatoes around his plate, nearly still drunk from what he’d downed the previous evening with Bronn. The heat of Dornish foods was still a little much for him but thankfully his wife had sensed his discomfort some weeks ago and a much more edible amount of spices were added to his dishes. There was a part of Tyrion that wondered if somehow his new wife was more sensitive to his needs than he had been to the needs of Sansa while she’d been his. 

_I got her out, I got her sent down here, she’s not stuck in that shithole of a city_ , he consoled himself right before one of the potatoes got the better of him and skidded off the plate while evading his fork. 

“Damn it all!” he said, dropping his utensils with a harsh clatter against the graceware. Arianne gave him a gimlet eye over her goblet of water, her manner unperturbed by his own. If his sister worried about younger, more beautiful queens he should wonder if his fourth wife—should he have yet another—would be yet more beautiful and aloof than Arianne for the woman across from him was certainly that against the comparison of Sansa. _Sansa would have performed her wifely task had I asked, borne my children had I asked, let me rule in her stead in Winterfell because she wasn’t taught to spurn her duties._

“Dear what troubles you? If you are lacking choice spirits I am sure that my cousin Manfrey’s bastard brother can procure you some Rhoynish clearwine. You and I have become quite famous since we drank the Orphans—”

“I don’t give a damn about the Orphans or the clearwine or my reputation,” Tyrion muttered, rubbing at a headache that was beginning to persist behind one of his eyes. He would need to drink a fair amount of water to get clear of it, but at the moment the trouble might be keeping the water down long enough for it to do its work. Arianne bristled at his tone, rising to her feet and planting her hands on the table. 

“It is clearly true as to that last. Your sellsword displays more interest in courtesies and gestures when he’s out whoring than you do here in these rooms. Would that I had a man light of skin and fair of hair that was to be trusted in my court aside from you, Tyrion Lannister,” she said, her voice not quite a shout but certainly louder than his headache would countenance. Arianne left it unspoken why she should need such a man, for it was plainly obvious. She’d seen through his complaints to the heart of them—they shared no bed, and hardly spent time alone aside from the morning meal. His wife intended on cuckolding him to procure heirs for herself and perhaps ending the family line of Tywin Lannister in the same stroke. 

Then she stood up straight and composed herself, looking at him squarely rather than down her nose at him and making him feel all the lesser for it. 

“I promised my morning to the Queen, please excuse me.”

Tyrion groaned as he sat back into his chair, feeling an absolute mess as he summoned a servant to bring him some wine. Gods how he missed Varys and Shae, they had been his greatest cohorts in King’s Landing—in his entire life really—aside from Bronn and Pod. If there was one thing he was definitively good at it was drinking himself under the table. The servants bustled about, already learning his patterns and knowing what to clear and what to leave. The wine was poured and a second jug left just out of his reach—he would have to stand and fetch it once he’d exhausted the first. 

It was through the pounding of his head from old and new winesickness that the bells started to sound across the whole city. Including, apparently, a bell that was located in a tower just a few dozen feet from their chambers. Tyrion moaned as his eyes felt like to pop from their sockets and trundled himself to bed to hide under the pillows from the noise. He could drink later, provided his head didn't explode.  


* * *

 

_She is very young_ , Oberyn reminded himself as Sansa moaned and panted. He worried now that she was yet too young to successfully birth a child, and cursed himself for his weakness when he’d first bedded her. Those outside of Dorne thought nothing of the youth of their brides, believing their moon blood to be proof of their maturity. Sansa had him struck, wrapped around her whims and wishes, and he hadn’t forced moon tea on her. It was a nagging thought these last months, despite the happy smiles she wore as her waist thickened. She wanted this, but should he have given it to her?

The hours crawled by and he paced the room like a restless animal until taking up a place behind Sansa on the bed—he had only been present for the births of three of his children, missing both Dorea and Visenya’s, but he wanted to stay here for his little wife. She was very brave, with a tenacious will to live and be free, and this was a time of great triumph for her. She had survived and was soon going to hold the proof of her freedom in her arms. Oberyn wanted nothing but an easy labor and a healthy child for her. With the presence of Rickon she would not have to return to the North if she did not want to, and because Oberyn himself was a second son her children would not have to be little strangers due to the influence of maesters and septas and wet nurses. As he held Sansa’s hands, he sent a prayer of thanks to the Father for finally weighing his wife’s fate and judging her unworthy of her previous torments. 

Maester Caleotte’s hesitation was then, in the midmorning, very alarming. There were babes who were born with gaping sores on their backs, twisted or missing limbs, their innards never sewn into their bellies by the Mother—and though Sansa’s daughter wailed readily enough it was no promise of the girl’s health. There were times, Oberyn had time to think before Sansa’s breathless question startled the maester into motion once more, that he really wished he had not studied in Oldtown. But then as Maester Caleotte hoarsely announced the birth of a son Oberyn had no more room for such regrets. Instead there was a slight bit of panic in him—how was he to raise a son? 

The boy, briefly put on Sansa’s chest so she could see him, already had a bit of the Toland cowlick in his sparse curls. He grizzled and whimpered to be held, though, and Ellaria took charge of the lad— _I have a namesake_ , Oberyn thought to himself and reeled from the impact of it—while Sansa once again labored. The second babe was brought forth much faster than the first, and when Maester Caleotte’s shock indicated a second son Oberyn couldn’t help but turn Sansa’s face to his and kiss her. He did not kiss her for giving him sons, but rather to celebrate having given Sansa herself sons, as she’d often whispered of wanting. 

The infants were small, born on time but having had to share a womb between them, and Sansa easily held them as they curled on her chest and fed. Rickon stood with him as Sansa drifted off to sleep, murmuring their names as she did so. The young Stark seemed a little troubled and Oberyn put a hand on his shoulder in comfort—the lad probably hadn’t ever seen a woman during her laboring nor minutes-old babes. Rickon glanced up at him and gave him a little bit of a smile before reaching and wrapping his arms around Oberyn’s waist. 

“Old Nan always said that they rang the bells when—when,” the boy mumbled. Oberyn chuckled and ruffled Rickon’s auburn curls, bending down to press a kiss to the crown of the boy’s head. 

“We ring them here as well,” he said in a conspiratorial tone before he straightened up, “tell me, how long between Oberyn’s birth and Brynden’s? My mother had them sounded for two days just to spite Lord Yronwood, who she’d locked in the Spear Tower, for demanding that she name a regent during the last month of her pregnancy with me.”

“It was—it was no more than twenty minutes,” Rickon said, excited to be the instigator of some form of mischief though his eyes betrayed how little sleep he’d gotten. They would have to send him to bed with some warm spiced milk once the bells were going—both he and Sansa were like to sleep right through them. 

“An hour for every minute that separated them, then, don’t you think? We shall ring them until sundown—and then start again tomorrow morning to make the difference in the hours and keep the love of the smallfolk.”

“All day tomorrow!” Rickon’s voice started loud but quickly quieted after a stern look from Ellaria. Oberyn flashed a smile, then, and gave the boy’s shoulder a shake of agreement. He’d given his dear wife a pair of sons, sons she’d so dearly yearned for. He could most certainly ring the bells for two days in her honor.

* * *

 

All the bells of Sunspear were ringing, and Brynden couldn’t care as he held one of Sansa’s babes close to his chest. The boy was sleeping, his tiny hands clenched in fists, but he was beautiful. His niece was propped up on some pillows, one arm around her other son as she picked at a small plate of food that her lover had had sent for. Cat might have never understood how Sansa had adapted to Dorne, perhaps she might have always ached that her daughter had felt the need to accept Prince Oberyn’s paramour as she had, but Brynden would never offer up such opinions or words. 

He was glad of her safety, and her happiness. And that he was able to meet the boy named for him, though for what honor he’d done to Sansa he knew not. 

“I am glad they were not so violent to me as Visenya was to Ellaria,” she murmured, tracing a fingertip down her eldest son’s cheek. Brynden swallowed thickly as he remembered seeing Cat when her little Robb was new in her arms while they were at Riverrun. It had been years before he saw his other niece with a son of her own, even though Lysa had seemed almost to grieve as she’d held little Robin to her breast. There was no grief in Sansa, though, rather she was like a cat who’d found a sparrow’s nest. 

“Why Brynden, dear girl?” Sansa twitched a smile at him then, her blue eyes sparkling. 

“I had little time to choose a name for the second born—Oberyn was supposed to have given me girls!” she said with a bit of an incredulous laugh. “But you came for me, as Oberyn did,” she continued simply, “and I would have the world know it. Besides,” her focus turned to the boy he held in his arms, “perhaps it is better to name children after the living.”

Brynden let a few tears slip down his cheeks at her words, for he plainly knew that very few of Tully blood would have considered naming their sons for him and his exploits—for he had not abided by the Tully words for much of his life in their eyes. Yet here was little Sansa Stark of the House Martell, mother of two sons of the Red Viper, and in his arms slept an infant boy named in honor of the infamous Blackfish of House Tully. Sansa realized soon that she’d caused his silent weeping and reached out her free hand to him, a plea for him to hold it as plain as day. 

“Your lout of a husband is planning on ringing the bells until sundown, and then from sunrise to sunset tomorrow also,” he chose to say, bringing a giggle out of his niece as he took her hand. 

“I thought I’d dreamt him telling Rickon of such wickedness. Ellaria was distracting me, though, and I was nearly asleep,” another small laugh, her eyes twinkling for a moment before her happiness drained away from her face. Now there was something of her poor, dear, dead father in the way the solemnity settled on her lips. Brynden took a moment to glance around the room. 

It was a large chamber, though a bit crowded really with the trunks of two women and the belongings of a man who was a warrior and a scholar. In among the orange and yellow objects there were items that reflected a taste of the North and the Riverlands, though. A little Northron inkwell with a wolf’s head, a few clasps done up as Tully trout. A few shawls such as Cat had worn when she’d first come down from the North. Sansa’s boys would inherit a wealth of family history, tragedy and joy both. 

“I wish my sister were here. Rickon is wonderful, it is true. Mother let me baby him, and I am glad he lives. But—”

“But she is your sister, and you’ll never have another. It hurt the same when I was in the Vale, parted from Hoster. Your sister is young as are you, if she yet lives—and she might. I heard rumors on the road, some men would trade stories of a boy that was a girl.” Sansa choked out a laugh, though tears flooded her eyes. Brynden awkwardly shuffled closer and grasped her shoulder in comfort. 

“It would be something she could accomplish. I cannot hope, though, Uncle, I cannot.” It broke his heart. 

“Sweetling, why?” All their moving about jostled little Brynden and he woke up with a coo and a whine. Sansa gave him a tremulous smile and let him trade babes with her. Oberyn was a bit bigger than his brother but not by much, and he was fast asleep after having gorged himself on milk. The younger boy fussed but soon began to calm as he smelled his mother and felt her heartbeat. 

“The goldcloaks and the whitecloaks slaughtered the household, even our Septa—a woman pledged to the Gods—the day of Father’s arrest. They ran them down in the hallways of the Red Keep, and why would they spare Arya? She who had no use in their game, she who spoke out of turn and often,” Sansa said softly as she pressed a kiss to little Brynden’s forehead. Brynden had known that the Stark household had been shattered but it was a shock to hear of it from his niece’s lips, especially over the heads of two innocent babes. It hardened his heart against the Crown—for even if the Queen’s children were the bastards of her brother Ser Jaime, Joffrey had been raised by a Baratheon as much as he had been by a Lannister. 

They would carve a better world for boys such as Oberyn and Brynden, one where they might marry without fear or repercussion—one where the values and freedoms of Dorne came to them as easily as breathing. It would make everything worth it. All the lives lost, the families destroyed, lands pillaged and burned—all of it. As the bells rang across Sunspear and he held the grandchild of his darling Cat, Brynden pledged this to himself once more. The Tullys of Riverrun and the Starks of the North would take the revenge as surely as the Martells of Dorne would, and leave the world better for it.

* * *

 

“You’ve at least got the proper blood,” Father groused as they stole away from the boat they’d been on—the flotilla had paused at one of the larger islands before making the long push to Sunspear, and they could not wait that long. What if there was a decision made to sail North before landing in Dorne? Their entire journey would be for naught as they were deposited in the Stormlands. No, it had to be now. 

“No doubt you’ll be rewarded handsomely,” the reply was caustic, yes, but there was little motivation to be sweet to Father these days. Rather than becoming maudlin at their parting, he had somehow remembered the parentage of his charge. The family history they shared, in a way. Sometimes the question of whether to abandon him floated, but never fully reached. He was strong in his way, and he knew both the better and baser natures of men. 

Thus he knew it was better to sail on ahead in a smuggler’s vessel rather than await the whims of those in charge of the armies sailing so ponderously across the world. In a few days’ time, perhaps a week, they would step foot in Sunspear and meet the Queen— _your blood like as not, be grateful you’ve got any left after what those savages did in King’s Landing_ , Father had said in a warning tone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, how did we like it? I hope Tyrion's reactions are believable for everyone--he's having culture-shock, still, as well as coming to terms with being a full-time captive, and in general still trying to deal with how his life has changed. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I really do appreciate getting your comments so please drop me a line if you've time! Even wild speculations are fun to hear about :)


	78. Tommen, Dany, Oberyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we have Tommen and Margaery, Dany, Arianne, and Dragons, and Oberyn. What's not to love?

Tommen was eating supper with Margaery, gleefully discussing what names they’d like for the babe she carried. He preferred a name from his father’s house. Something like Orys, who had been so trusted by Aegon the Conqueror, or Lyonel in honor of the Laughing Storm. Margie deferred to his judgment for a prince, suggesting Alerie or Jocelyn should she bear a girl. His wife glowed, her smiles making his heart soar as she would let him feed her this morsel or that. Theirs was a marriage unlike what he’d ever witnessed between highborns, and it made him happy indeed. 

So when one of Margie’s handmaidens announced that the Lord Hand asked an audience Tommen’s spirits were high as he rose from the table. He pecked a kiss to Margie’s cheek and smoothed his doublet as he went to the outer solar where they received private visitors. Since Margie had fallen pregnant they no longer ate their meals in the larger chamber, for his Queen did not want to embarrass him should she need to dive for the basin provided her by Grand Maester Pycelle. 

Grandfather was seated already and made to rise before Tommen waved him down. Lord Tywin was in poor health these last months, to the point where even Lord Varys had asked Grand Maester Pycelle if they ought to suspect poison of some sort. The Dornish were, as Lord Varys put it, well known deceivers throughout most of their history. Lord Tywin had tried to wave away the concerns but had acquiesced to Tommen’s insistence that he be examined somehow. The Grand Maester had found nothing amiss, putting everything down to ‘advancing age.’ It was an explanation that did not settle Tommen’s mind, in fact it left him awake late into the night more than one. 

He was King, a husband and soon to be a father. The Realm headed feet-first into what might be an extremely harsh Winter due to the War of Five Kings, and he needed an able Hand to help guide him through this first travail of his rule. There would be other Winters that he could guide the Seven Kingdoms through, but this first would be especially trying. Tommen was left to either pray for Lord Tywin’s continued health or throw himself into learning everything he could from the man of statecraft before the Stranger found the aging Lion. 

“Your Grace, I have some troubling news concerning your mother Lady Cersei.” There was a kind of quiet fury that emanated from his grandfather that had Tommen hesitating on cutting his wine with water. Perhaps he would need to be a bit courageous in the Baratheon style to hear this. His mother had gone to Highgarden to marry Margie’s elder brother Willas—since she could no longer stay in King’s Landing as Queen it had felt like the right thing to do, giving her a kind of dominion over the Reach. A marriage to Prince Doran might have been better, but the man had never dissolved his marriage and so a third marriage binding Dorne to the rest of Westeros was out of the question. 

“Do you bear this news as my Hand or as my grandfather?” it was a private way of allowing Lord Tywin to express his own deep concerns. As the King’s Hand there were certain things that had to go by the wayside in terms of familial affection or duty, but as a grandfather and a father more visceral emotions could be expressed. 

“As your mother’s father. There is a letter from Lady Alerie that expresses a certain amount of distress that there have been accusations against Lady Cersei’s honor.” A bit of anger, likely coming from his father Robert who had had a famous temper, boiled in Tommen at that. 

“There are always accusations against my mother, while she has only ever been gracious in word and deed—” he broke off, not wanting to revisit the few times some of the smallfolk had called him a bastard of his mother’s own brother. It inspired a fury in him that made him understand, in a chilling moment, Joffrey’s own frustrations and anger. 

“That is indeed the case,” Lord Tywin nodded, “but this does not pertain to the lies spoken of her here in King’s Landing. This is, rather, a serious inquiry into the state of the household that she keeps in Highgarden. She apparently discovered one of her handmaidens scheming to seduce Lord Willas or Ser Loras and rather than throwing the girl from her service she abetted her.”

Tommen swallowed harshly, hoping that his mother hadn’t done anything further than that—

“She was discovered when she arranged to spend the night with her betrothed, something that would have been a very minor indiscretion between two people about to be married, but rather than going to Lord Willas’ rooms herself she sent her handmaiden.” At these words Tommen put his head in his hands, glad that he hadn’t added water to his wine. He would need a few goblets of strong spirits before he was able to reconcile himself to what his mother had done. He didn’t want to believe her capable of it, but at the same time she had been the force who organized the Red Keep against Lord Stark. 

“Please don’t tell me she…” he trailed off, not looking at his grandfather. Not seeing it made it less real, somehow. 

“At which point she attempted to put blame on Lord Willas for dishonoring her, I think hoping that breaking the betrothal to a Tyrell would mean she could resume her pride of place here in King’s Landing.”

“Wrinkled Crone, why would she do such a thing? According to Lord Varys there are more spies and gossips in the Reach than there are in the rest of Westeros combined, surely she knew this?”

With a cough his grandfather shook his head, a pensive look crossing his face for a moment. 

“I think that like your father, your mother sets her mind on certain things and finds herself unwilling or unable to let go of them once they are hers. I am arranging things with Lord Mace tonight. You and Queen Margaery will go to Oldtown to pray for your mother and stay for a time in Highgarden while the Faith undertakes a trial for your mother. We do not know what charges they will bring, as of yet, but prepare for the worst.”

“I will. Thank you, Grandfather.”

“For what, your Grace?”

Tommen hesitated, not quite knowing how to phrase his words in a way that wouldn’t dishonor his parents. 

“For putting family above great deeds, above kings and lords.” Lord Tywin inclined his head briefly and then pushed himself to stand. His bearing was stiff as he bowed and exited the solar, and Tommen watched him go with a frown. He did not want to absent himself from his grandfather’s teaching, but at the same time he found himself relishing the prospect of showing the people of Westeros that he was a good king. Mother would not get special dispensation for being the King’s own mother, but neither would he be seen to abandon her in her time of need.

* * *

 

Rhaegal would not stomach the touch of a man. Dany had thought perhaps that Quentyn could help her train the green, that he would fly at her side as they waited for her armies to arrive in Dorne, and then later on into battle in King’s Landing. He had no cause to fear the dragon’s fire, but there was no such magic in his blood to prevent the dragon from snapping and snarling at him should he try to climb up to ride. 

Arianne, however, was also unburnt in the face of flames—and Rhaegal purred and croaked for her attention, waddling after the Dornish princess whenever she walked the sand gardens. He was not so dignified as Drogon attempted to appear, instead he seemed determined to make Arianne love him as much as he apparently loved her. The old prophecy, the one that she’d learned more of from Prince Doran and from reading the letters sent to Sunspear by Princess Elia, spoke of three heads. Between herself and Arianne, Dany could see two head of the dragon but she wondered now where she might find the third. 

The Martells descended from Targaryen blood of the female line just as Dany herself descended from blood of the female line—after the deaths of Aerys, Rhaegar, Aegon, and Viserys, Dany herself had a double claim. True enough she was a King’s daughter, but were Aerys not her father then by Targaryen tradition her mother’s line would give her rights. Perhaps there was another secret Targaryen—a woman from a woman’s line perhaps?—she might find to put on the back of Viserion. 

“Your Grace, it would seem you forgot one of your dragons in Essos and instead have brought me a cat,” Arianne giggled as Rhaegal snuffled and growled as he needled at her hair. Where his talons had nearly sliced into Quentyn, with Arianne he was as gentle as he was with Dany herself. 

“A cat indeed,” Dany said softly, dragging Rhaegal’s head away from Arianne and holding him still as the Dornish princess went around to his back and swung up into the saddle that her husband had designed for her. The saddles were clever tricks, not impeding the movement of the dragon’s wings nor sitting too loose and putting the rider at risk of falling off. Her dragon struggled and fidgeted once Arianne was in place on his back, and Dany laughed as she stroked the sides of his head. He was as his namesake—beautiful, loving, and impatient. They had little time to train him away from such habits, and today was a big test of how well he obeyed Dany despite his newfound love of Arianne. 

Drogon held himself aloof from her when she approached him, though he did subtly lean into her touch as she stroked his flank before climbing onto his back as well. She had brought dragons back to the world, but they were half-wild save for this one, and she was determined to live long enough to see them grow as large as the dragons of Old Valyria were said to. 

“Viserion, Rhaegal, fly,” she called out in Valyrian as Drogon surged up into the air. He was still the biggest of the three, and growing the fastest, so his bulk made the race into the skies a little fairer though at the same turn he flew far faster than his brothers could manage. It was terrifying and glorious at equal turns, and Dany thanked whatever gods might be listening for the turn in her fortunes.

* * *

 

Oberyn still could not believe that Sansa had birthed sons. They looked just like him, just as Trystane had looked just like Doran when he’d been newly born, and it was incredible to see how Sansa doted on the boys so equally to how she doted on Visenya. He had wondered if she might name a son in honor of her father or brother, and had expected that she would name daughters in honor of her lost mother and sisters. Catelyn, Arya, Talisa—good names to add into House Martell, but such was not yet the case. Instead a second Oberyn, and a hero of the Stepstones too in the form of Brynden. 

In truth his heart felt light that his gift of direwolves to his wife had produced her brother—Rickon Stark was alive and well, and his whole body pumped with ‘wolf’s blood’ according to his adoptive mother Osha. He would make a fine Lord or King of the North, and Sansa’s children by him would not be squabbled over by lords and knights wanting to reclaim Northron glory. 

“May I take one of them?” he asked as he stood from his desk and crossed into the bedchamber. Inside Sansa and Ellaria lay on the bed bracketing the three infants. Visenya wasn’t a great deal larger than her brothers, but then she had been born weeks too soon and would perhaps always be small. She did have a bit more energy than either Beryn or Bryn, but at the moment she was curled up tightly against Sansa while Beryn snored against Ellaria’s belly. The infant Brynden blinked sleepily up at him as Sansa smiled—the choice was easily made, for out of the three two were fast asleep. 

“Up we go, my boy,” he said, still feeling a little awkward even after several weeks that he had a son, “we are going to go listen to the rain and keep you from accidentally waking the others.”

“He’ll want to eat soon, Oberyn,” Sansa called softly to his retreating back, “just call when he does.” He turned briefly and blew a kiss at her in acknowledgment before heading out to the balcony and sitting back on the chaise there. While not so tightly secure as the Water Gardens, the palace of Sunspear was safe enough for him to doze for a few minutes with his child curled up between his tunic and his chest. 

“You let your poor father know if you’re going to make a mess. I’d rather know beforehand than be surprised when I wake up,” he said as he settled down to close his eyes. Now that Queen Daenerys’ forces were within weeks of landing in Sunspear they had to gather—as quietly as they could for the Spider was not the only spymaster in Westeros and it would be folly to forget that—supplies and equipment for them. The crossing of the Narrow Sea at this time of year was dangerous and those arriving in port were often ill from days or weeks of rough seas. 

It was why Westeros had been invaded so few times, and why each time had been so resoundingly repelled. There was no place to safely rest and recover the strength of an army—even landing in Dorne was a bit of a risk this time around because if the Tyrells mustered their forces quickly enough they might be able to fill the Stormlands with their men to lie in wait for whatever army landed there in hopes of marching up to King’s Landing. The task of finding and later keeping the supplies and their necessity secret fell to Oberyn whose household could be trusted. 

Arianne had her Lannister husband and so could not keep anything personal or sensitive in her chambers. Quentyn was only newly returned from Yronwood and had never been head of such a large undertaking. Trystane was even younger, and though his wife was known to them she was a liability because of the safety she’d had through her life—those who felt safe might accidentally say something that led to ruined plans and disasters of human lives lost. Finally, Doran had enough parchment on his desk to perhaps make a small boat out of. 

War was not something Oberyn wanted now. He had his children to think of—from Obara down to little Bryn, he was responsible for their lives. War was not kind to women, of which there were a great many in his family, or babes-in-arms and it was his only solace that Sansa would most likely be staying behind in Dorne. As he dozed off, Oberyn promised himself that he would try to honor her wish to stay in his homeland all her life. Once the war was done he would return to her, give her half a dozen children, and die at an advanced old age surrounded by his family.

It had been early evening when he went to sleep and the stars shone brightly in the sky when he next opened his eyes. Normally the temperature would have gotten uncomfortable enough that he would wake and go inside, but sharing a bit of body heat with his son had apparently kept it at bay until now. Bryn was awake, small fingers opening wide and then closing tightly as he stared around himself. Oberyn put an arm under the boy to support him as he made to sit up, thinking that he had been much more tired than he’d thought when he caught a glimpse of something moving out in the courtyard below. 

A man, tall and hulking, tried to blend into the shadows that drifted from the clouds drifting through the night sky. The man’s face was turned up towards the balcony Oberyn occupied, just a smear of pale skin in the darkness. Oberyn held his breath for a moment before deciding to act normal, as though he hadn’t seen the spy. Hopefully Ser Daemon was within and could be sent to alert the guards, he thought as he sat up. 

“Ah-ah, I wouldn’t make any sudden moves, Viper,” a low voice said as a blade briefly kissed his throat. The voice belonged to a small person dressed in ragged Braavosi clothing, he saw as they rose from behind him to stand in front of him. The steel they held now pointed directly at the base of his throat, just above the collarbone where the slightest of stabs would put an end to him. 

The blade in his attacker’s hand was thin, like a needle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, let me know what you think! >:D


	79. Sansa, Gilly, Gendry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter could be a bit upsetting...

Sansa had woken up and realized that neither Oberyn nor Bryn were in the bedchamber, and after wrapping herself in one of his long robes she’d ventured out into the solar to find him. The candles were all burned out to nothing, but the curtains to the balcony drifted in the night air and Sansa thought nothing of walking out to find him. He probably fell asleep and let Bryn make a mess all over both of them, she thought with a smile as she pushed aside one of the curtains only to let out a scream when she laid eyes on the scene before her. 

An urchin of some sort had a sword pointed at Oberyn, the tip just inches from his throat. Beneath her husband’s tunic her son wriggled and grunted his dissatisfaction, though Oberyn stayed deathly still. The urchin whipped around at her scream, however, and pointed the sword at Sansa herself. In the darkness she could only make out a mop of unruly hair above a sternly set mouth. 

“Please—no,” Sansa said, utterly terrified as she hadn’t been in more than half a year. This was her nightmares made real—a Lannister assassin sent to kill her husband and her children before killing her as well. Oberyn was cautiously sitting up as the assassin obviously wavered between killing Sansa or the Red Viper first—perhaps he would be able to get past, and then he could save Ellaria and their other babes. Straightening her back Sansa gave him the subtlest nod. She would save them as her mother would have saved her, had she been given the opportunity. 

Footsteps pounded in the corridors and torches began to be lit in the lower levels of the palace, for such screams as hers were unheard of in Sunspear. Sansa closed her eyes and prayed her sons would grow up as brave as their father, even as she stepped closer to the Lannister assassin, and that Ellaria would mother them tenderly in Sansa’s absence. Somewhere in her mind she’d always known she wouldn’t be safe here, wouldn’t be safe ever again—

“Seven hells, can you be more dramatic?” the assassin whined, whipping the sword away into their belt, and Sansa wheezed as though she’d been kicked by Meryn Trant as her eyes flew open and really saw the person standing before her. Arya. ARYA. Sansa chanted her sister’s name—starting softly in disbelief at first but then growing into a shaking litany as tears flowed down her face.

Oberyn still kept his distance, though she saw he dearly wanted to stand between her and the urchin on the balcony, but Sansa closed the distance between the would-be assassin and wrapped her arms around her. The Lannisters had murdered everyone—Jory Cassell, Father, Septa Mordane, Mother, Robb, and so many others—but they’d not gotten Arya. 

She did not flinch in her hold on her sister even when Ser Daemon and a group of other knights burst into the solar behind them, shouting and asking if everyone was alright. Even Rickon had woken and with him his tiny pack of direwolves. Oberyn stood as buffer between those intent on defending the Prince’s family and where Sansa stood with her sister in her arms. 

“I’m not some ghost, but I will be if you keep strangling me,” Arya complained, though she did not struggle against Sansa. Instead she subtly wrapped her arms around her elder sister, feeling the splay of Sansa’s hips and the softness of her torso left from carrying her sons, and it brought a giddy smile to her lips as Arya acquainted herself with the changes she’d gone through since they’d last seen one another. It was a miracle that they’d each survived so far with so little support from the world around them. 

“Prince Oberyn, a man was found trying to escape the gardens. We are hunting him now, it shouldn’t be long before we capture him,” a newly-arrived man-at-arms announced from the back of the group in the solar, and at this news Arya seemed to be shaken out of her daze. 

“That’s the Hound. You can’t kill him.”

“He is a Westerlander and a Clegane,” Oberyn replied, having handed Bryn to a very confused and alarmed Ellaria, “why is his life safe here in Dorne?” Arya shrugged in a dispassionate manner that made Sansa’s skin crawl a bit. Even she was not so callous at the talk of death. 

“He’s on my list, and you can’t kill him before I get to.” 

At this point Rickon pushed through the forest of adults’ legs and flew at Sansa and Arya. Sansa let her sister go just enough to let Arya bend down to hug Rickon in the flickering light provided by the torches Ser Daemon had brought with him. Behind them the children were just beginning to mewl and cry from the loud voices and strange smells, and Oberyn started to send away some of the knights who had come to their aid. Ser Daemon and Ser Dagos remained, as well as a shocked Brynden Tully. The angry shouts of the Hound still sounded from the gardens but Sansa consciously pushed them from her mind. 

There was time enough to talk about these things, but tonight she wanted only to marvel at seeing Arya’s face once more. Of all the things she’d regretted since the beginning of this, the loss of her sister had pained her the most. Father’s head had been parboiled and put on a spike—she’d seen it. She’d seen his head lopped from his shoulders, she’d seen his eyes pecked by carrion birds. Sansa could not bring Eddard Stark back to life any more than she could turn her arms to wings and take flight. Robb and Mother had made their choices and met their ends in manners she could not change or understand—but Arya. Arya had been lost, and none had found her body. 

Once Petyr Baelish had claimed to have seen her, but he was a trickster and a liar and Sansa had not been able to believe him for there were no other rumors of a girl such as Arya Stark. 

“Why did you come to us in such secrecy?” she murmured, cuddling close to her sister as they sat together with Rickon and his direwolves curled up at their feet. Oberyn and Ellaria dozed across the room in their bed, though Sansa wasn’t entirely sure that Oberyn was really asleep. 

“The Hound heard that you’d been sold to the Dornish by Joffrey,” Arya replied, “he figured they’d pay for me as well for a matching set of Starks. I—I thought that the Red Viper raped a child into you, and I would make him pay for it and get you out. It’s why I left the Hound in the gardens, so you could jump down and he’d catch you.”

Would no one ever believe the Dornish to possess decency and morality, Sansa wondered to herself as she combed her fingers through Arya’s tangled dark hair. Even Arya who went against the grain of so many things had assumed the worst of the Martells. 

“You did miss a fine slew of weddings, so I suppose Clegane was not entirely wrong,” she chose to say, “even the Dragon Queen married a man of House Martell. I think, though, that they’ve run out of men so you’ll be safe. Unless you’d like us to be goodsisters, though, for you might be able to convince Prince Doran to dissolve his union with Princess Mellario.” Arya cackled a laugh out and shook her head, and Sansa was of a mind to agree. Her sister was not one for marriage, not in the fashion of highborn ladies. 

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Arya whispered, her words barely audible as though she also knew that Oberyn did not sleep so fully as he appeared to. 

“No,” Sansa replied, her voice equally as soft, “he’s protected me ever since I was his to protect. Doran had to have him restrained when he was told one of Princess Myrcella’s knights had beaten me in King’s Landing.” Her sister nodded decisively at this. 

“I’ll have to watch him to make sure—if he lays a finger on you,” she spoke now with a louder tone no doubt meant for Oberyn’s ears, “I’ll gut him and toss him out a window.”

_ “Arya!” _

* * *

 

Gilly had been brave as she took Sam out of the inn they were staying at, walking to one of the canals away from the main streets of Planky Town. If there was to be a fight she wanted it in a place she herself chose, and she did not want to fight in Sunspear in front of Jon Snow’s sister and her family. This was something private, and it broke her heart to have to say these things to Sam but she knew she had to. 

There was no going back to how things had been above the Wall, that much had become increasingly clear to her over the weeks it had taken them to get here. Above the Wall Sam had been able to do as he wished, for there were only the gods and Gilly to see him out in the wilds of the North. Now, though, they would have to part. He would return to Oldtown, probably with Alleras, and she would remain here in Dorne with Jon Snow’s sister. There was no place for her in the North where Sam might freely or safely see her, let alone love her as she’d ached for him to do for so long, and the only place Sam might survive the breaking of his vows was north of the Wall. She did not, perhaps to her shame, love him enough to live where Death walked brazen across the snows.

Her feelings, whatever they were, for Alleras also informed what she would have to do. The Dornishman was a bastard of his father but would inherit a keep and lands from his mother and grandfather—he could marry who he pleased, should he leave his studies at the Citadel. No one would lop his head off if he did that—and even if they had to remain close but apart all their lives, Alleras was conscious of Gilly’s past and her learning. 

As sweet and good to her as Sam had been his words were occasionally cruel in the most innocent of ways, making her feel small and useless despite the journeys she had gone on and the things she’d lived to tell of. Gilly loved Sam Tarly, and it broke her heart into jagged pieces to do this, but she could not keep him the way she wanted—no needed—to keep someone. This would be a private goodbye though, something that belonged to herself and Sam and no others.

Gilly had learned to treasure things that were hers, starting perhaps when Sam had given her his mother’s thimble and gaining ground when she’d held her son in her arms the first time. A part of her would always belong to Sam, just as a part of him would always belong to her, but from afar.

“But Gilly—you helped me realize who—who I am. What I can be,” Sam said, his eyes turning red as he fought not to let tears well up. Gilly reached up and carded her fingers through his soft hair, running one thumb across his lower lip, and putting one hand over his heart. He had such a big heart, one strengthened by his tenderness rather than defeated by it. Had he not joined the Watch they would never have met, but because of the Watch she could not keep him. Gilly let her own tears stream down her face, for she was not ashamed of loving him or feeling pain upon his loss. 

“And I am glad. You showed me kindness, true kindness, and love. The world I live in is bigger and brighter for having known you, and it will always be. Even dour old Jon Snow is probably a sight happier for having you in the world, and people like Randyll Tarly are worse off for having sent you away in anger,” she paused, resting her head on his chest and letting his arms come up around her shoulders, “and I would do anything to keep you. But,” she looked up at him, stepping out of his hug and squaring her small shoulders. 

“But?”

“But now you know who you are, what you can be. Now I need to do the same, because I want to be so much more than just Gilly. I can’t settle myself into your life as the one who gives you purpose. I’m not a doll who belongs to someone, I’m me—I belong to myself, and I need to start learning what that means.”

* * *

 

Just under two years ago now, Gendry had made landfall just north of King’s landing. He’d been half starved and thirsty enough he could have swallowed vinegar with glee. He had managed to listen to the words of Davos Seaworth—he hadn’t drunk any seawater, and he’d not given up hope of finding the shore. He’d said prayers, on the blustery nights when he felt nearly desperate for warmth, to the Smith and to the Warrior to protect the man from Flea Bottom from those on Dragonstone. Surely that woman in red would not take kindly to having had Gendry himself stolen from her clutches. It was with Davos’ possible self-sacrifice in mind that had kept Gendry rowing towards land, and once there what kept him heading west and south. 

He was a blacksmith, though he had to keep his training with Tobho secret for it was just the thing that would land him in the clutches of goldcloaks or another red woman, and his trade earned him enough food and money to travel on. There was enough unrest in the Seven Kingdoms that no one questioned him too deeply on where he’d come from and why he’d left there. His skinny face and haunted eyes were probably enough of a story in most places. 

The Reach was everything it was rumored to be and more. There the farmers were fat and smiling, even as Winter began to set in, and even the poorest of them seemed to always have a bit of iron or even steel they needed worked in exchange for a good meal and a straw bed. It was here that he regained his strength and started filling out once again as he had begun to while traveling with the Brotherhood, and it was noticed by a knight in service to the Tyrells of Highgarden. 

Gendry was a strong young man, with excellent skills and an increasingly good reputation for his ironworking, and he was given a place at the smithy in Highgarden itself. The old blacksmith there—Wendyl Arborborn—shared a mentor with Tobho, a long-dead man named Ha’Blind Burlion, and he seemed relieved that Gendry did not take offense to the strict way things were done in his smithy. In truth it felt like coming home, with every tool in its proper place as it had been when he’d been under Tobho. 

When news reached them that Queen—Lady—Cersei was to wed one of the Tyrell boys, Gendry hadn’t much cared aside from making sure he took care and didn’t speak of his time in King’s Landing. Even the possibility of being Robert Baratheon’s bastard was dangerous, something he knew better than most, and the last thing he needed was a woman like Cersei Lannister seeing him. He managed to see her, of course. She was as beautiful as finely worked steel, as strong and as dangerous as it too. 

So it was with not a little fear that he submitted to Wendyl’s request that he craft the spidery little metal guards that the former Queen of the Seven Kingdoms so favored for her outfits. There had to be holes punched ‘just so’ every few inches to aid the dressmaker in sewing the pieces on, or the leatherworker in adding decorative little belts. She abhorred roses and vines, preferring thorns and roaring beasts and paws with outstretched talons. It was a terror and a joy to make them, for they were truly beautiful for all their sharpness and despite their future owner. Gendry was conscious to save the Lannister gold he was paid with for them, for there were few places where Lannister gold did not spend. 

“She’ll catch yuh starin’ one of these days, boy,” Wendyl muttered as he came to stand next to Gendry in the upstairs window of the smithy. Lady Cersei walked with stately purpose through the gardens, admiring the flowers and giving icy smiles to those who walked with her and explained the origin and breeding of all the flowers. A few weeks ago he had seen her even feign tears at the sight of a Winter Rose bush, the buds just barely beginning to grow as the weather cooled. The ladies she had been with were fooled easily enough at her ‘distress,’ and the bush had been hacked down by the gardeners not long after. 

As beautiful and dangerous as steel indeed.

“She seems the sort of woman who would appreciate it, Wen,” he replied, rubbing his thumb along his lip and longing to hold the woman—not as a lover, but as a companion somehow nonetheless for she would no doubt be interesting to see up close—and then continuing in a softer voice, “besides she’s old enough to be my mother, and I daresay she would know it.”

“Well you keep your hands to yourself, treat her like a new apprentice treats the forge.” Gendry ticked a smile at that, for those had been Tobho’s words in regard to women also. Sometimes he missed that man, despite everything. 

“I think I could handle it. It’s that Lord Willas who is in for a surprise, I think,” Gendry said as he followed Wendyl down into the smithy. “You and I at least know what molten metal can throw at us.” Wendyl broke into wheezing laughter, one of his big hands squeezing Gendry’s shoulder tight. It was good to have a place such as this, he’d not expected it when he’d left King’s Landing, not in the least.

* * *

 

Sandor couldn’t quite believe what had happened since they’d arrived in Sunspear. The runt of the Stark litter had made him act the part of her father the entire way from the Vale to Braavos, then from there to Tyrosh, and from Tyrosh to Sunspear. It hadn’t been hard to pretend to be a put-upon man who was forced to care for a bastard girl-child. It had been frustratingly easy. 

Besides—it was dangerous to be a father to Starks. Rickard and Eddard and Robb all died pretty horribly, and he had no intention of joining that list—which is why he tried so hard to evade the Dornish guardsmen who chased him through the dark after the Little Bird screeched and screamed. Sure he hadn’t murdered any Dornishmen, he’d been a boy during the Rebellion, but he surely had the same blood as Gregor did and that was often all it took to lose a head with bloodfeuds. It was why they were called bloodfeuds, after all. 

Now, though, the runt was being petted and preened while he was locked up in a dungeon. It was a nice dungeon, to be sure, but it was a dungeon nonetheless. He’d thought that perhaps he’d have a couple fat satchels of gold—or perhaps even the Little Bird to hold while she sang her pretty songs, if the runt’s plan had worked—but no. He was once more just the Hound who without his leash had been caged with the rest of the beasts. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope this answers some questions left by last chapter! Thank you all for reading, you are all very dear for doing so! Let me know what you think!
> 
> ...In addition, give "Clinging to the wild things that raised us," a read. It is lovely!


	80. Quentyn, Wyman, Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we have Quentyn quietly freaking out, Wyman being Wyman, and Sansa having some thoughts on a new visitor. Enjoy!

Quentyn had known he’d married a warrior-queen, but somehow he’d not fully realized it. Dany was sweet to him, her smiles joyful and dimpled, her bearing light and graceful in the most unconscious of ways. It wasn’t until he stood with her on one of the high towers that looked out towards the Narrow Sea and the Stepstones that he realized the enormity of what it meant to marry Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, Mother of Dragons. 

The ships of the flotilla stretched almost across the entire horizon, their sails a myriad of colors. Solid purple for the Meereeni vessels, ones of alternating red and white for the Volantii fleet, black ones unfurled below cloth-of-gold flags for the Golden Company, and then dotted between these groups were small green or blue canvases, white and grays too. There had to be hundreds if not thousands of ships bearing down upon the Dornish coast. 

“There are forty thousand souls upon the water,” Dany said with pride despite the softness of her voice, “twenty two thousand soldiers, and the fleet of Volantis too. The rest are former slaves, fleeing Essos and it’s evils for good.” Quentyn put an arm around her waist, staring with wide eyes at what she brought to Dorne. It was, he thought, a feeling akin to what Mors Martell must have felt a thousand years ago when the ten thousand ships of the Rhoynar had appeared along the horizon. It was also akin to the armies that Aegon the Conqueror had wielded at first—small, but aided by dragons and therefore an instrument of terror. 

Quentyn was glad he was Dornish, and that his marriage secured his people from the wroth of dragons. Incredibly and deeply glad of it.

* * *

 

 

Jeyne Poole still whimpered and screamed in her sleep most nights, but as the months had wore on and the snows fell harder her smiles had begun to appear much more real during the day. His granddaughters guarded her, sleeping on either side of her in a big bed. The one she’d shared with the Bastard of Bolton had been burned. While his granddaughters and son oversaw the rebuilding of Winterfell and the acquisition of supplies, Jeyne often found her way to the solar he’d taken for himself. There she would sit, knitting or sewing clothes, with a relaxed look on her face when he glanced at her over his ledgers. 

He did not bring up to her the idea of a new husband, nor did he search for one out for her at the moment. Perhaps there was something to be said, he thought, for the Mormonts’ tradition of naming a bear as the father of their otherwise bastard children. Unless Jeyne Poole’s eye wandered to a young man—or even an older man—Wyman saw of no reason to force the silliness of marriage on a girl so abused by those who were supposed to have been her protectors. He’d thought at first, before truly understanding how deep the wounds to her soul were, to wed her to one of the few knights who had maintained their loyalty but those days were gone. 

There was a certain relief, though, that the Bastard had not managed to get her with child and thus nothing had to be decided about the spawn of such a monster.

Wyman did not want to get into that argument whatsoever. 

“Why do the Lannisters not come?” she asked one day over her embroidering. Because of her efforts the flags of the Starks were once again populating the walls of Winterfell, flying high in the winter winds with the Manderly merman flapping just below them to show Wyman’s place as castellan and steward. The highest and grandest of them wove together the sigils of House Stark and House Nymeros Martell—the Martell sun yellow and defiant in the face of the oncoming Winter. Her question gave Wyman pause though, for indeed he’d thought to surely draw the idiots into the North with his letter to them weeks ago. It was the kind of letter one wrote to produce a rash reaction, but so far his spies said that the Lannisters and the Tyrells continued to disband companies of their men so they might return home and help bring in the last harvest before Winter set in below the Neck. 

The Starks always had the right of it, at some point, after all. Winter is Coming—and the snows did not care for petty squabbles, bastardy, or war.

“They are a sight more pragmatic than Lord Stannis, as been of late,” he replied, setting aside his quill as he focused his attention towards her. He could see in her face the angles and lines that might convince a man that he was seeing a Stark, rather than a Poole. He worried sometimes that he had been too late to save her, despite bringing her peaceful days such as today. 

“He is the rightful King of the—the Realm,” she hesitated on naming six or seven kingdoms, for there were many in the North who were now clinging to the idea that perhaps Prince Oberyn Martell might be swayed to send his bride to the North and stand as her consort as she was crowned Queen. Wyman was the most vocal of these people for it was his plan entirely—hold Winterfell until the Stark returned to sit as monarch. Sansa Stark was the last of the Starks, so she would have to become the Stark in Winterfell. Her siblings were all chaff in the wind or dead, and Jon Snow was in no manner able to take up a place as Lord of Winterfell given his vows to the Watch.

“That he is, though I suppose if one of King Robert’s bastards still lives he might gain enough support to give Lord Stannis pause. Were it not for the suffering they’d surely visit on us come Spring, I would say let the Lannisters have it all and hang the consequences.”

“But there are no more of King Robert’s bastards,” Jeyne said, a certain shake in her voice that told Wyman far more about her time in King’s Landing than he wanted it to. If he got his hands on this Baelish character he would perhaps leave him to the whims of the two Boltons down in the dungeons. 

“He was a man of particular looks—if he left one or two behind him in other places than King’s Landing they might still live. Men are getting romantic in these dark times as they look for something merry to cling to.”

Jeyne made a noise that told him she was not entirely convinced, but let the matter drop. 

“Has there been news of Sansa—of—”

“None so far from Sunspear, my girl. Only a raven from someone I don’t entirely trust saying that she’s happy, her belly big with her husband’s child. It might be the whole Winter before we set eyes on her, and by then she might have even two or three children by the man—though we live in hope, do we not?”

“We do indeed, Lord Manderly,” Jeyne said obediently over her needlework. If there was something mechanical about her agreement, Wyman did not address it. She was healing in her own time and at her own pace. With a beady eyed glance at her Wyman reached for a bit of parchment and wrote down a simple message—he did not share his doings regarding his prisoners with her. Though he was bent on revenge he was not some dog awestruck by his loyalty to Jeyne Poole, bringing half-dead things to lay at her feet in hopes of praise. He did not inform her of what was done to the Boltons far below them in the crypts. 

The Sparrows, and their High Sparrow, had been trying to extract the faith in the Old Gods from both Roose and his bastard son. It was not going well, and Wyman was shrewd enough to know that their doings wouldn’t remain secret forever. No, the men from the Dreadfort deserved new punishments and the religious zealots were beginning to wear out their welcome. It was not without cause that those in the North hedged their bets between the Old Gods and the New—and should word get out that he had expressly allowed the Sparrows free reign with his prisoners it would not go well for him through the Winter. 

No, they would be given a few supplies and then sent out into the snows as he had sent Stannis Baratheon. It would serve them well to understand the Old Gods, he decided as he finished writing the order, for how else could they be so sure of the primacy of the Seven? 

“Lady Jeyne, would you accompany me on a walk to the kitchens? I feel that we are both over-due for a spot of beef and potato stew.” He would deliver his instructions to his captain of the guard on the way there, he decided as he heaved himself up to stand. 

“Perhaps your granddaughters might join us, my lord?” Jeyne said as she hesitantly put her hands on his elbow when he offered it. Wyman gave her a warm smile and nodded. They couldn’t do much for her, but what he and those with him could do for Jeyne Poole he was most certainly glad to order it be done.

* * *

 

Sansa could feel how excited Daenerys was for the arrival of her advisers and friends. Though the woman maintained a facade, beneath it she was as lonely as Sansa had been in King’s Landing. Quentyn and everyone else brightened her days, but there were those coming up into Sunspear now that had been at the Queen’s side for many months if not years. They had been her companions through fortune and loss, and stayed true to her at incredible cost sometimes. 

Would that Sansa herself had inspired such loyalty when all had been taken from her, but she knew her situation had been wildly different than Daenerys Targaryen’s. Dragons put a different light to things, even newly hatched ones. 

The party had docked in the harbor and then walked up to Sunspear, their raiment simple but well made befitting their stations surely. A tall woman with black skin, her hair like a dark sunburst from her head, walked between two men. One was Ser Barristan, who Sansa had met when he’d been in the Kingsguard and she was glad to know he hadn’t met an undignified end somewhere in Essos. He was perhaps the closest she’d come while in King’s Landing to meeting a true knight—if such people existed. 

The other was a tall man who wore a shock of blue at his throat, his manner serious and determined while those with them seemed more at ease with the stately procession. He would be Jorah Mormont—the man Sansa’s own father had condemned to death, the craven who had run from receiving justice and ending up on the side which meted justice out instead. She did not want to speak to him, though she was sure she would have to—what had Lord Tyrion said to her when the Lannisters had made her marry him? It was the only thing that brought even a tiny bit of a smile to her face that day— _ My lady, do you drink wine? _ On that day, Sansa had not yet tasted losennta and it’s curious heat, and she had answered him honestly.  _ When I have to _ _._ That had brought him some odd measure of amusement, and he had told her:  _ Well, today you have to _ _._

Courtly graces and manners, the smooth lies and vicious truths, were all things she’d thought to have escaped—she did not partake of them, now, save when she had to. And looking at how brightly Daenerys smiled at Mormont, today she would have to. 

Behind the main group, however, there was a man who walked tall and confidently. He was of an age with Daenerys, and looked like he shared her white hair and features if one were being kind in the estimation. His skin was olive, either from birth or the sun Sansa couldn’t rightly tell which. He looked like Joffrey had so long ago in Winterfell—otherworldly, handsome, a prince even. She glanced at her husband who stared daggers at the man, then to Doran who looked like he might try to rise from his chair in shock, and Daenerys who showed—confusion. Whoever this man, this stranger—the Stranger maybe—was, their Queen had no knowledge of him. 

“Your Grace, it has been too long since we’ve seen one another,” the woman in the middle said in flawless Andaii. Whatever hesitation that there’d been in Daenerys it evaporated as she greeted those she’d waited so long to for, though as she bid her knights to rise she slid questioning eyes at the man who walked so close to the honor guard—and the tall shadow that seemed to cling to him in the form of an aging man who looked like he’d not slept a full night through in twenty years. 

“And who do you bring with you?”

At this question there was a slight moment of hesitance before Ser Barristan gestured for the young man to step forward. At this distance Sansa thought she could make out purple eyes beneath the fringe of silvery-gray hair—though it was probably closer to white-blonde, the darker hue seeming to perhaps come from old dyes. 

“Your Grace, we chanced upon a knight named Jon Connington in Tyrosh—and his ward, your nephew, Prince Aegon VI Targaryen,” his voice was crisp, and Sansa could see that while he was confident in his words he also wanted to appear distanced from them. Perhaps he had picked up some courtly wiles during his exile, Sansa thought as she took Oberyn’s arm and curled closer to him. Oberyn was openly scowling now, while Doran’s face was probably what Sansa’s own had been when Rickon had appeared before her. 

“Prince Aegon VI died in King’s Landing,” he said, not moving from his respectful place behind Doran but making his opinion on the matter clear enough. Her goodbrother flinched for the tiniest of moments, his shoulders then slumping back to sadness. The aging knight, Connington, coughed and took a few steps closer to the main party. 

“His mother arranged for his nursemaid to smuggle him out before the Lannisters took the city, she gave him into my care. He is the rightful heir of Prince Rhaegar,” it sounded, to Sansa, like a rote litany. It sounded like Grand Maester Pycelle talking of if her betrothal to Joffrey was legitimate or not based on her father’s ‘treason.’ Glancing quickly at those around her, Sansa realized her husband’s family was wholly unprepared for this eventuality. 

“Whoever you are, if you come to Dorne peacefully you will find hospitality and respite,” she said, reluctantly letting go of Oberyn’s arm and stepping forward. She was sister by marriage to the Ruling Prince of Dorne, and it was her duty to see to such needs as surprise guests. Let Doran and Arianne retreat with Oberyn and the Queen to discuss what to do with ‘Prince Aegon,’ she would find the man and his companion a room for the night. If she asked Ser Daemon to organize some guards, she had the plausibility of protecting a member of the royal family. 

In reality, Sansa thought to herself as she prodded everyone into finishing the greetings and introductions, she would ensure that the man was not left unsupervised. Though it sent a cold chill through her as he eyed her, as though her youth negated how close she’d clung to Oberyn, she knew that he presented a major possible shift in their plans. By both Dornish and Targaryen succession, he was the heir—surely if his sister Rhaenys had lived, she would be with him. They could not wed him to Daenerys for the Targaryens had never wedded multiple men to their women—and there had not been a multiply married Targaryen ruler since Maegor the Cruel. 

She hoped that everyone around her at least remembered history well enough to know how that had turned out. They walked back into the palace right as rain began to fall heavily as the monsoon of Winter strengthened its hold on Dorne and Sansa wondered how they might test their new Targaryen and his veracity. It would be in line with the occasional cruelty of the Gods to be given such hope only to have it dashed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that one anonymous POV from back awhile ago (the people going to Dorne all spooky like) was actually a red-herring for Aegon. That was actually Arya being all mysterious and such, and then all of the 'father's' whining makes sense because it is Sandor. I....I realize that I perhaps went a little TOO mysterious probably. 
> 
> But now we have Aegon! For a while. Yes. Or something. 
> 
>  
> 
> ...Let me know, what you think! THank you so very dearly for reading! 
> 
> ...and DON'T GOOGLE GOUT.
> 
> Lastly: please read and review, if you have time, **Clinging to the Wild Things that Raised Us** by TheSweetestThing. I literally cannot recommend it more highly!


	81. Willas, Jon, Dany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we have a new POV this chapter--Willas! Everyone cheer for Willas! Yaaaaaay. 
> 
> We also have Jon with another impression of a cat getting rained on, and Dany making some plans with some severely upset Martell brothers. Yes. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Willas was given a bit of consideration by the Faith in their doings with him—he was the heir of their greatest patron, after all, and as such it was dangerous to treat him badly. In truth he was glad that if their eye, ever angrier as the wars progressed and the people starved and begged the Gods for help, fell onto his family it fell onto him. Dear Willas whose only sin was inkstained fingers and a cane to have him remember youthful folly for all his years, the Septon of Highgarden had said placatingly to the Septons sent from Oldtown. They’d allowed him to return to his rooms, to think on how he’d thought to sample his future wife before she was his in the eyes of the Gods. 

What might they have done to his sweet sister, had she been caught in a similar situation? He was the heir to the Reach, while Margaery—Margaery was the thrice-wed, twice widowed, and claimed herself a maid for the last. It would be a fool’s blindness to think she would be ‘sent to her room without supper’ for daring to send one of her handmaidens to her future husband. The same went, he thought wryly, for his current betrothed. Lady Cersei hated him, hated all of them really, but he had thought her somehow more cunning than this. 

She was used to absolute power over those around her, that much was obvious, and it was unthinkable to her that not all of the servants would be amenable to her scheming. For the time being it was easier to play along, that he had somehow been part and parcel of the illicit plans. Watching her escorted around Highgarden by a pack of Septas, dressed in undyed rough wool, Willas thought her to be a beautiful kind of dangerous despite being stripped of her fripperies. Like a fire built too high in the hearth—blazing with heat and passion, the logs near to falling out on the rugs and furniture gathered close by. She was tragic too, but not in the way that Margaery had tried to tempt him with when writing about little Lady Sansa. 

Lady Cersei was tragic, not in the manner of a wounded hare, but more in the fashion of the ruins of Summerhall. Pretty in a way, ruined in others, clinging to what once was despite the destruction visited on her. Leaning on the sill of his window and wondering what the Faith had in store for her and for his family also, Willas reflected that Cersei Lannister was pretty—and if he was brave enough, he might pity her for it. Let the Gods call him a craven, but he wasn’t sure there was a man living who was brave enough to pity the Lioness of Casterly Rock.

Her plan had been simple and would have worked if they'd been in King's Landing. She had given him just enough encouragement to believe she might visit him in his chambers some night before their wedding. It was not as though she came to him a blushing maid, none needed to worry about her innocence being intact as she entered the Sept. Willas had been, despite his reservations, a little flattered that she chose him. Through Margaery rumors had reached him of her philandering and he knew much better looking men had occupied her lusts in the past. They were to be married and she wished, prematurely, to share his bed. It had, in his mind, boded well for the state of things as well as for the future. Married couples who could not stand sharing a bed were not happy ones and while Willas never expected happiness from Cersei he did wish after peace and contentment. 

What he'd gotten was a giggling blushing handmaiden and an investigation by the Faith into the mores and practices of Highgarden. His grandmother had kept them at bay with deft touches--donations, promotions, special days of prayer or fasting or dedicated to hymns--for decades but they were never content with being outsiders to the great citadel of Highgarden. The scandal of his night with Cersei's handmaiden, despite nothing happening, had been all they needed to muscle past Grandmother's defenses and safeguards. Whenever he caught sight of his betrothed as she walked through the gardens a few times a day to get fresh air from the Septa's cell they kept her in, Willas wondered if she had any inkling what her actions had brought about. Her lies which had been seen through so easily had undermined the power of the Tyrells in their own home. 

Father was furious but uncertain--but it was Grandmother's reaction that Willas worried over. The old woman would never forgive such a slight to Highgarden, not after all the work she'd put into making it flourish and sparkle, and he was quite sure that from this point forward Olenna would be tireless in her quest to make Cersei's life difficult. For now it entailed accompanying the Lannister woman on her outings, dressed in probably the most demure clothing in her possession, and reciting little witticisms from the Seven Pointed Star to much praise from the otherwise stern Septas who were mandated to always accompany Cersei until such time as her trial and it's conclusion were reached. Willas had never been on the receiving end of his debauched grandmother's rather perfect memory of the teachings of the Faith but from Cersei's face it must be quite miserable. Or maddening, he thought also with an occasional shudder. 

* * *

 

Jon wondered, sometimes, if his mother was from the Reach or the Riverlands. His name of course indicated she’d been of the North, but how? Lord Stark had not spent much time in the North when calling his banners, and afterwards he’d been gone for well over a year. Jon knew, from hearing the older servants talk about it when he’d been a boy, that he’d been just three months old when Lord Stark had returned with him to the North. His mother could not be of the North, at least if he was truly Lord Stark’s get by a woman from above the Neck. The idea floated in his mind sometimes, as he would fuss over the weirwood that stubbornly continued to thrive in his saddlebag, that perhaps he was the son of Uncle Benjen. It was a paltry, pitiable thing he knew—he was the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, he was above such people as mothers. At least he should have been.

But then questions were many, and so many of them had been asked before—aloud or silently—and Jon grew weary of them. Questions abounded, yes, but answers were so few. King Joffrey had seen to it that Lord Stark never spake the name of Jon’s mother, and he had been the only one to know her name. Even in prophecies given to him by the Free Folk, or hallucinated in dreams as he rode slowly through the still-green countryside of the Reach, did not provide answers. At least, he thought, not the ones he wanted. 

Two fathers—both of whom were dead. The idea that one had caved as he fought darkness had Jon’s thoughts resting more and more often on his missing uncle—and the other, well, Jon had worked that out fairly well that it meant Lord Stark and his unlawful beheading. The man who had fathered him had died with his secrets still buried deep in his chest, a man for whom secrets were a curse and a certain darkness. The North was not a hospitable place for secretive men, and the cold had bitten close to Lord Stark’s heart. 

The idea that he was somehow from the Reach, that this place was the place of his birth, rang a bit true to him though. The old woman had said he walked on rose petals, and every night his feet hit the ground of the Roseroad. He liked the idea of being birthed from roses and to live in the snow, some embittered winter rose turned black with frost and neglect. Perhaps the crone’s words had included Sansa’s fate too—whose looks towards him had always been so calculated and aloof, not wanting to ire her lady mother or bring ire upon him. _A child whose look is as icy as Winter but whose heart burns with a fire that even fire fears_. It truly sounded like Sansa, at least a Sansa who married into the dragon-killing Dornish.  Lady Sansa would be horrified to know that he thought such flouncy things about both of them, and it brought reluctant smiles to his face when his mind turned towards his goal of seeing her

Aside from Bran she was the last living family he had. There was no way of knowing that Rickon was truly alive, just as there was no way of knowing that Benjen was alive. He hoped, as he guided his horse towards the Dornish Marches, that she would not think she could keep him somehow. That much was clear enough in the small foresight into his life that he’d been given—the Night’s Watch would be his destiny and he would live out his days in the frozen North as had been intended by both the Old Gods and the New.

* * *

 

Quentyn walked with her through the strange sand gardens—which were gradually filling with water as the cloud-free days in Sunspear grew farther and farther between—and didn’t question when she pressed a kiss to his jaw before seeking out his father. She was glad of his presence. Her husband was not handsome—not in the least—but she felt comforted and warmed by him. Quentyn Martell was steady, and though their marriage was one of politics he did not make her feel that way. When she chattered, rarely, about her dragons to him as they readied themselves for bed he listened attentively and had interesting observations to share. 

It was a little strange to think that he had been groomed as her husband from his earliest youth but Dany liked the change. Normally, she’d learned from Sansa, women were the ones taught to obey their men. To never speak up or speak out, and to learn to let their sons go to war and their daughters to the altar. The way that Viserys had brutally raised Dany herself was not so far off from how he’d likely seen little girls raised in King’s Landing. But Quentyn—all of the Dornish that she’d met so far—he was the one who was biddable and quiet. His louder words and opinions shared only with her, not even his father or siblings. 

Truly, she thought as she was let into Doran’s solar, a remarkable way to raise a man. 

“Your Grace, thank you for your visit,” Doran greeted her, setting aside some brittle parchment to give her the deference of a proper nod. Dany gave him a nod in return, no smiles ready on her lips for this meeting. If there was one person more unsettled by the appearance of Aegon VI Targaryen than herself, it was her goodfather. Across the room Oberyn paced like a caged tiger she’d seen once in Tyrosh. It was endless and threatening, single-minded in the motion and execution. Dany was glad that she was not the one who inspired it, though she did wonder if that was how she looked to Quentyn when she was deep in thought. 

“It is less a courtesy and more a necessity, I think,” she replied, taking a seat next to him. He was the angrier of the two, she decided, though his austere appearance belied his feelings. People likely focused much more on his younger, explosive brother, but never on him. 

“Oberyn, come sit,” she said, and Oberyn yanked out the chair she indicated and stood instead, his palms flat against the table surface. His long hair hung down and partially obscured his face to such an extent that Dany had a hard time continuing to read him, but he wasn’t likely to respond kindly to being told to sit again. 

“How dare that drunkard—” he eventually said, fingers curling up into fists before smoothing out straight once more, “my sister would have never smuggled one but not the other, at least not so cynically. To face her death and take her daughter with her without passion or care—”

“We do not know that Elia did not care,” Doran interjected softly, his eyes fixed on the pieces of parchment before him, “but we do know how to lay to rest this scheme and send away this charlatan.” With these words he passed, ever so gently on account of the age of the parchment and of his gout swollen hands, what Dany soon identified to be letters over to her. She felt the gaze of both Martell men boring into her as she read the elegant hand of a dead woman. 

Princess Elia, her sister by marriage, had kindly teasing words to say in each letter—her happiness with her daughter and then, in another letter written later, her son. There was wonder also in the letter that proclaimed Aegon and his sister Rhaenys to have been born with the rare proof against fire. Something not even Aerys or Rhaegar had been blessed with, and something that Elia had exulted over. She was cast as a pauper princess, she wrote, but how could she dislike the title when she’d been given tiny miracles in lieu of children?

The baby Aegon had been crawling unattended for mere moments when he’d found his way into the hearth of his mother’s rooms, and Elia had shrieked loudly enough to summon Rhaella to her side when the infant was discovered amidst the flames. It had been Rhaenys who had boldly reached and gotten her brother out. Dany wondered sadly if this revelation had somehow warped her brother’s interest in prophecy into obsession—and she also wished he’d been patient enough to wait for Dany’s own birth. It was nothing but fairy stories, though, to think of what might have been. She lived in the now—and now a man challenged her line in the succession, presented himself as usurper towards all she had worked for, his argument’s crux lying in the fact that she wanted to rule Westeros, and by the laws of Westeros his claim was the stronger.

“Our nephew was saved by his blood against the whims of the flame,” she slowly said, emotion welling in her chest that would turn to joy or revulsed anger later on she knew, giving the letters back to Doran. Both brothers seemed to have similar thoughts though it was obvious that their fury came from different wells. Oberyn raged that someone dared use his sister’s memory and that of her children against them—a late-coming usurper with a silver tongue to match his silver hair. Doran raged that his plans of nearly twenty years were thwarted so, in such a manner that he had to accept the disruption both decently and legally. 

“I will test him by it to prove his origins—in fairness I will make Quentyn do the same test. If he is Aegon we will give him a wife suitable to his station and he shall rule alongside me as King. I will not put aside Quentyn for him, nor will I wed them both as mine own,” she said, leaning forward to pour wine into the goblets that waited for them. Oberyn watched her through the fall of his hair just as keenly as his brother did. 

“And if he is not Aegon,” she continued, leaning back in her chair and swirling the wine before taking a long draught, “I will take him as my relative but I will not allow him to claim the name of Aegon VI. He cannot ride the dragons because they will not take a man as rider, but he must be able to touch them and be fearless in the face of their fire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, it means so much! I do hope that you enjoyed this chapter and that you'll take a moment to let me know what you think of it!
> 
> We will be back to our regularly scheduled Oberyn/Sansa/Ellaria soon.


	82. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is all from Sansa's POV which hasn't happened in a good while. She's doing her thing for the most part, but then we have Daenerys making a bit of a scene with Aegon and I felt like we really need to hear how Sansa STARK feels about that. 
> 
> Thank you all dearly for reading, and I hope that you enjoy the chapter!

Sansa was given the task of coordinating their guests and felt run off her feet at the end of the first day. Arianne and Daenerys were at stations above seeing to the festivities and logistics of said festivities, and Myrcella tried to help as she could but she’d been raised as a princess. She knew much of sweetness and pleasantries and giving grand tours of the home—which she did admirably—but the education of running a household had been largely deprived of her. Sansa, meanwhile, had excelled at nearly all of it save her skills with numbers which had been lacking according to both Maester Luwin and Septa Mordane. 

Maester Myles had her help correct her stepdaughters’ exercises, and it had been helping—thank the Gods.

She’d settled first Ser Barristan, Ser Jorah, a swaggering man named Daario Neharis, another man introduced to her as Grey Worm, and a tall black woman who sweetly introduced herself as Missandei—they were Daenerys’ Small Council in a way and were to be accorded high honor. They had organized the immense migration of civilians and soldiers and done it all on trust. Sansa was glad, despite her reservations about Ser Jorah, that among the queen’s advisors were men of Westeros. One had left Westeros for he was a man of principled nobility, the other fled justice—two sides of the same coin and ultimately a good one for a young leader to have in their possession. 

Her uncle Brynden, who dogged her steps alongside Ser Daemon these days, had already made plans to spar with Ser Jorah in the morning before breakfast—a small pleasant thing that served to remind Sansa that the men in her life were not hers to keep. With the arrival of Daenerys’ army so too did the renewal of the war. She would be left here in Dorne, most likely, with Ellaria and the younger children. Daenerys and Arianne would be flying two of the dragons—and potentially this would-be Aegon VI as well. 

The ones she settled next were the Volantene man, Talarro the Maegyr who was Daenerys’ ally and chattered at her in quick Valyrian—asking her what sort of man Robb had been and if she thought Robb had married for love or hope of Volantii support. Sansa haltingly tried to tell him that it was rumored Robb had married for love, but that she’d not been allowed to know much of his doings by the Lannisters. Talarro only quieted when she feigned an accident with her shawl and exposed the scars on her back, scars that she tried not to parade as evidence of her suffering but what were her last resort nonetheless. Then there were also of course the two men who had found their way into the main traveling party. Jon Connington had blue fading from his hair, hair that appeared red at its roots though nothing like the Tully red that sprouted from her own head, and his face betrayed the many hurts he’d experienced since the time of King Aerys. The younger man with him looked princely enough, she decided, but there was something about him she disliked. 

Sansa had seen enough brazen princelings to last a lifetime, men who were naught but children in their actions and feelings, and this purported Aegon VI reminded her closely of them. He knew all of his courtesies, he was flawless in his addresses, and there was a certain familiarity with Westerosi culture and Dorne that had been lacking in Daenerys. As she left Connington and his companion in their chambers, Sansa reflected that one had been trained to rule and the other had been trained to demur.

“Sansa! Sansa, can Loree and Doree come with me to wash Shaggy?” Rickon shouted, running full bore at her—though she managed to step from his path and catch at his sleeve instead of letting him slam into her. Her body was still tender in places and Rickon was more akin to the puppies that chased him around than he was a boy half-grown to manhood. Behind him trotted Osha, quietly scolding him in signs that Sansa took to be too vulgar to shout through the halls of Sunspear. 

“Only as long as the other wolves are not there—and if you ask Ellaria,” Rickon’s face fell a little, for Ellaria was yet a bit skittish around the direwolves, but soon brightened. Sansa had not told him ‘no,’ and that was something to celebrate. Osha rolled her eyes as Rickon sped off to find Ellaria. 

“The taller he grows the faster he gets—tisn’t fair, Princess, giants at least get slower the taller they get.” Sansa laughed and briefly hugged Rickon’s foster mother. The wildling woman took able responsibility for Rickon, something that Sansa was glad of for she was already daunted by the idea of raising Visenya and the boys. That Ellaria and Osha took care of the other children was a blessing she made sure to thank the Mother for daily. 

Beside her Uncle Brynden watched as Osha took up her run after her charge once more, leaning his weight on one hip as he did so. On her other side Ser Daemon mimicked the old man and Sansa giggled before taking each of their arms and leading the way back to her solar. Oberyn would appreciate a little help with his papers as he saw to the placement and organization of Daenerys’ relocated city. There were translators to locate, and maesters—half and full—to quietly summon to the estron coast of Dorne to try to teach some Andaii to the freedmen of Meereen. There were also the camps to set up, to make sure that latrines and food were seen to until such time as the refugees could make their way further into Dorne—to stay there or to move further North through the Marches and into whatever territory they could claim after the war ended. 

“It seems that Dorne is the place to reunite family,” Ser Daemon quietly remarked as they entered much more private hallways of Sunspear. Ones that guests were not permitted to enter save they were accompanied by several guards loyal to the family. Sansa felt some of the stress of the day washing away from her as she walked. Here her stepdaughters played and learned, Septas looked after her own children, and the Sand Snakes flitting about helping as they might. Obara sometimes relieved guards so they might see the birth of their child or observe their lover’s nameday, Nymeria sang and played harp on one of the balconies that overlooked the harbor, and Tyene sewed and sewed and sewed. It was here that Ellaria would tempt Sansa with sugar cured lemons and kisses, and where Oberyn joked that he needed more arms to hold Visenya, Beryn, and Bryn close to his heart. 

“It does, a bit,” Sansa said softly in answer to Daemon’s words, “but I do not—I cannot. I—”

“It is alright, Princess, I don’t think you are alone in your disease regarding the Queen’s surprising guests,” Daemon said when Sansa failed to express her worries in a tactful manner. It was not that ‘Aegon’ had given her anything to distrust, it just felt wrong. Shouldn’t he have appeared much earlier? To Daenerys at least, his last living relative and—were he inclined to continue the Targaryen tradition of wedding close family—his only choice in wife? But then her worries tripped over themselves, for she herself had given up Arya, Bran, and Rickon for dead and this very day she’d kissed the cheeks of Arya and Rickon both. It confused her in all honesty. 

“I just—I think we were all quite surprised. I don’t know what to make of it yet,” she replied quietly, letting Ser Daemon open the door to her chambers before leading them inside. She heard her uncle muttering that there wasn’t much to make of the man other than he might look like a Targaryen but it remained to be seen that he actually was one. Sansa gave him a peck on the cheek and left the two men outside the door to the bedchamber. 

Oberyn and Ellaria were curled up in bed with the three babes between them. Visenya was awake and gurgling happily as Ellaria dangled one lock of hair just out of the girl’s reach and Sansa was momentarily breathless. This was hers—these five people, three of them tiny, would be her respite and refuge during the long and hectic days to come. Aside from Arya’s break-in this was a place where she was utterly safe and loved. Sansa couldn’t imagine a better place to escape to, she thought as she crawled in behind Ellaria and dropped off into a doze almost immediately.

 

* * *

During the days that followed there was a building sense of purpose among the people of Sunspear. The return of the dragons was upon them—it would be a blindingly fast war, in all likelihood, and result with Daenerys being crowned Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, Queen of the Andals and First Men, Princess of the Rhoynar, and Queen of the Realm. She presented herself at court, formally and for the first time, and called upon Doran as the Prince of Dorne to raise his bannermen in her name and cause. Uncle Brynden also swore, and Sansa swore in her brother’s place for Rickon escaped both Aelaenor and Tevira as well as Ser Daemon. 

Though Sansa’s word and that of her uncle were nominal only—the bannermen of the North were scattered, some loyal to the Boltons while others retreated to lick their wounds and hope for the return of a Stark come Spring. The bannermen of the Riverlands were exhausted, those that survived at least from Robb’s rebellion. But she and Brynden were the last known surviving and unfettered members of their bloodlines and would be invaluable come the end of the war. It was all very courtly and Sansa ached for it to end so she might retreat to her rooms, but there was still the matter of the Golden Company and the Volantii emissary. 

The Golden Company swore to uphold their contract made by the Triarchs of Volantis and the Archon of Tyrosh—to put Daenerys Stormborn on the Iron Throne and retreat to Essos afterwards. Whatever Daenerys did with the throne was her fight alone, and should the Golden Company come across a Blackfyre to put forth as a challenger was not taken from them as part of the contract. Sansa longed to ask someone why the Free Cities, who hated the idea of an end to their practices of slavery, would support Daenerys’ bid for the throne but there was no time. Not when Talarro the Maegyr stepped forward. 

He wore what Oberyn told her was Volantii griefcolor—white tunic and breeches with a surcote of red, with red and white scarves covering his throat and fluttering behind him from his quick walk through the throne room. He had almond shaped eyes, the dark brown betraying a certain barely bridled anger that reminded Sansa of Oberyn. His nose was aquiline above full lips. Talarro was incredibly handsome, and Sansa wondered if his sister had been also as beautiful—if she had been kindness and stability in the face of his fire and vicious restraint. 

“I am come to Dorne,” he said in Valyrian, nearly spitting his words they were so crisp, “to right a wrong against all our families, but most dear to me my own. My sister, who freed her sword slave upon coming to Westeros, was murdered at the wedding of her new uncle. She, her husband, and my nephew unborn—murdered. I am told Lannister and Bolton and Frey took their lives, and I will have them. Promise me, in the name of all the Gods that men hold to, these and the navy of Volantis will be yours to command.”

Daenerys, had ascended to the Sun Chair and sat next to Doran after he’d pledged the might of Dorne to her, promised it would be done. Sansa was deeply uncomfortable by now, wishing she’d listened to Ellaria and brought a cushion with her, and wished only for someone to carry her back to her bedchambers and let her curl up—and she nearly stood up when Talarro the Maegyr retreated into the growing group of those who publicly declared their support for Daenerys Targaryen and her cause. 

“And now I require a brazier of coals,” the queen announced, “for a man has come to me bearing news that my nephew, Aegon the sixth of his name of the House Targaryen, survived the sack of King’s Landing. Many pretenders have come to me in my life about the lost children of my brother Rhaegar and they all of them failed to prove their heritage. Mine own husband, Prince Quentyn, bears little Targaryen blood indeed but fire does not harm him. Neither does it harm the Princess Arianne.”

The throne room was deathly silent as the brazier was brought out, and Quentyn kissed Daenerys’ hand before he descended from the dais to stand next to it as the lid was lifted and the coals exposed. 

“Aegon, please step forward,” the queen said and from the crowd emerged the young man that Sansa had so many reservations about. He looked a little alarmed but there was a shaky sort of confidence about him that made her stomach clench. He looked like Joffrey when people had tested his whims and wishes before he’d been made king. It terrified her. 

“You will each take a coal from the brazier and pass it to the other man. Do this thrice with new coals each time—if you are protected from fire by your father’s blood I shall name you my co-ruler and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.” She left unsaid what would happen to him should he fail. Quentyn moved first, taking a deep breath and plunging his hand deeply into the coals and retrieving one that glowed bright red for a few moments before burning to a ruddy gray. Aegon took a similarly deep breath and reached—Sansa saw his entire face spasm as he grasped a coal, saw how his skin blistered and blackened, but he managed to pass it to Quentyn. Sansa nearly gagged at the sight of his ruined flesh, her imagination snapping to what it would look like in a score of years as the Hound’s face flashed before her mind, but the would-be prince kept an iron grip on his agony.

It was only when Quentyn handed him the coal from the heart of the fire that Aegon screamed. It was a shriek that rivaled the ones that Sansa had heard as Cersei had watched Joffrey die, it was akin to the sounds that Joffrey would have made had he not been clawing at his own throat. It was terrible to hear and it made her insides feel like water as she struggled in earnest not to vomit. Oberyn let her hide her face against his shoulder, stroking her hand and telling her to breathe as Aegon’s screams grew hoarse as the reality set in as to what had truly happened to him—and something in Sansa also screamed, for another Targaryen had tested man against fire. 

Did Daenerys not know what she’d just done? The image she was burning in the minds of every maester who would write histories of her rule in a hundred years’ time? For a petty slight, in the scheme of things, she had ruined a man’s arm. She had ruined it in nearly the same manner that her father before her had ripped open a wound in the Realm that continued to bleed to this very day. Daring to peek up at Oberyn she saw his triumph—Aegon was not his nephew—mix with his own memories of Robert’s Rebellion and it relieved her. Daenerys she could escape—she was the wife of a second son and thankfully she would be allowed to raise her family in relative anonymity. 

It chilled her to entertain the thought that Oberyn would have approved of this ‘test,’ had he known its extent beforehand, and she was glad he did not. Because she could not escape Oberyn as she could the queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts? Let me know if you liked it! Hated it? Questions abound? Let me know!


	83. Sansa, Tywin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Aegon did not take things well, as you'll see. And we get a little POV from our dear friend Tywin who has a chat with Varys. Many many many incredible thanks to Alijah for being an incredible help with ungluing my fingers and chopping up a bit of a block that I ran into. 
> 
> Enjoy the chapter!

After putting a lead on the direwolf Rickon had gifted her, Sansa dropped a kiss on Oberyn’s head as she made her way out of their chambers. Ellaria was curled up on a chaise, holding Beryn while Oberyn had Visenya asleep on his shoulder as he read correspondence from the various bannermen he’d entrusted the construction of shelters and obtaining of food for the huge mass of people that Queen Daenerys had brought with her to Westeros. They were, in truth, lucky that she brought an army of freed slaves rather than Dothraki. The people she’d rescued looked for peaceful homes—and should the war go as planned such a future was what surely awaited them. 

Amid the concerns of the people she’d brought, Oberyn also worked to read between the lines about how the Dornish felt upon hearing of how the Queen had ‘tested’ Aegon Dragonseed before the court in Sunspear. 

Despite Sansa’s own horror, most of the lords that Oberyn conferred with deemed the action necessary. To risk a split in the loyalties of the few Targaryen supporters who survived in the Reach, Riverlands, and Crownlands was madness worse than whatever might brew in Queen Daenerys’ mind. By proving Aegon was not a royally-blooded Targaryen meant that any who supported his claim did not in fact support a Targaryen reclamation of the throne but simply a change in leadership. 

Besides, Oberyn had said with a dry, mirthless smile, the showy manner of testing would only confirm that Daenerys was the truborn daughter of King Aerys II. They had little hope of rebellion against their alliance now and would have to count on Quentyn giving his wife a crash education on three hundred—or at the very, very least thirty—years of Westerosi history. 

Oberyn had also quietly promised to take their family to stay with old friends of his in Braavos if things went awry here in Westeros. It comforted Sansa but she didn’t like having to even contemplate such a radical move. Ellaria had joked, seeing the way Sansa’s face had fallen as she learned of the plan, that they might end up in the North after some years by simply going the long way around. It had lightened Sansa’s heart at a crucial moment, and she was glad of it. Ellaria was a tyrannical ruler of perfectly timed jests.

Now as Sansa led her direwolf through the halls of Sunspear towards the open-air pavilion tent that had been set up for Aegon, she wondered if she might attempt to cheer him up. Maester Myles had had a long fight with Maester Caleotte over the location of Aegon’s recovery. The older maester thought the burned limb—and man attached—ought to be cloistered and secluded, while the younger Myles thought daily salt-soaks and fresh air would salvage more of the young man’s arm. 

Aegon appeared despondent in the unguarded moment she caught him in. He’d had a high fever in the last few days, and he had his injured arm resting on his lap as she approached. The burned flesh had been peeled and scraped away, and Sansa knew that beneath Aegon’s bandages the skin was puckered and dimpled with blisters and melted muscle—he would bear these scars forever, and all who saw him would know he’d once aspired to be King of Westeros only to end up a scarred fool.

Sansa had once wandered the Red Keep bearing the cuts and bruises that marked her as a girl who had wanted to be Queen of Westeros. She knew better than many how Aegon must feel, if not his direct pain on account of his wound. 

“Katlasa, heel,” she said softly, bending down to feed the direwolf a morsel of cheese she’d snuck from her luncheon when the animal stopped and sat. The red-furred wolf was not so beautifully behaved as Lady had been but she was easy to train into being a bit calmer and reserved than Rickon had allowed her to be. Sansa’s words, and her movement as she looped the lead around one of the tentpoles, drew Aegon’s attention though he didn’t speak. 

“Princess Sansa,” Maester Myles greeted, appearing from the small separate tent he’d been sleeping in over the last week. 

“I—good afternoon Myles—wondered if you felt ready for company Aegon?” The man’s eyes, of a similar blue-violet to Daenerys’, stared her down in what he probably felt was a regal manner. Sansa afforded him enough respect to refrain from sitting before he answered. She had had everything ripped away from her in an instant by a recently-minted monarch, declared vile and outcast by the same painful stroke once upon a time. Sansa bore those wounds privately. 

Even if Aegon kept his hand and lower arm,his scars would ever be for the public’s consumption. 

“Princess. Please, sit. Stare if you need to,” he said waving his bandaged forearm in front of himself, “your little brother did this morning before he went with his wolves to the shore.” Sansa sat, taking time to arrange her skirts properly. Sitting was getting easier as the weeks wore on after the birth of her sons, and she was deeply grateful for it. 

“That was bad of him to stare so, you have my apology.” 

Aegon scoffed, flicking his eyes from where Katlasa sat licking her chops to the view of the bay stretched out before them. 

“I’m the bastard of a family of Targaryen bastards now, Princess, you needn’t trouble yourself,” he said eventually. 

“I’ll,” Myles said in the ensuing silence, “be back soon. Must see if, ah, the kichens have some fresh lavender they’ll let me use for a poultice.” He hurried away, but not before dropping an affectionate ruffle to the direwolf’s ears as he went. Sansa noticed it seemed to briefly engross her companion. 

“Myles and your brother said some interesting things about you, Princess Sansa Stark,” Aegon said simply once the maester was well away. Sansa gave him a small smile to encourage him to keep talking. Unlike Cersei and JOffrey, Daenerys had not acted like Aegon were some leper to be abused. Instead the Queen had asked him to be treated as her ‘dear relative’ but not as royalty. Having herself had few friendly faces not long ago, Sansa wanted to make sure that Aegon knew as well as felt that no one bore him any grudge. 

“Myles told your brother,” Aegon continued, “to keep his wolf bitch away from the bedside and the creature obeyed with nary a sound nor twitch from your brother. Myles wondered if, with some practice, you yourself might do the same with one of Daenerys’ dragons.”

Sansa colored a little and looked away, settling her eyes on Katlasa as the wolf stood and paced about on the short lead, anxious about something only the direwolf seemed to sense. 

“That only happened once, what Myles—” her scream would have interrupted her words, but Aegon clapped his good hand over her mouth as he grabbed her with terrifying quickness. His injured arm pinned her arms to her sides and Sansa struggled mightily against his grip. 

“Sh, shush, shush, you’ll only need to calm one of them long enough to convince her that I am as much a dragon as she is. More, even,” he said, his breath hot in her ear. Tears sprang to her eyes and rained down her cheeks—Sansa tried to bite his palm, too, but his hand was already leaving her mouth to dig his fingers into her hair. The bandages on his arm oozed puss across her neck as he put her head in a lock. 

“Walk and I won’t drag you by your hair,” he started to say before letting out an unholy scream when she managed to tear the bandages away and rake her nails across the injured and inflamed flesh. Blood and puss dribbed down her front but he did what she wanted him to and let her neck go—

—and walloped her in the face before jerking her from her feet and starting to pull her from the courtyard and the tent that was set up there. Sansa screamed for help but coughed out the last of it when he kicked her stomach but when she got her breath back she just screamed again.

* * *

 

He wondered, the thought as taxing as climbing the staircases that led to the very highest chambers of the Rock, how long he had been drifting in and out of consciousness. Tywin had taken to his bed—it felt like years ago, but he knew it couldn’t be so. Years ago he was at the Rock, with Kevan and—or had he been fighting Robb Stark? Had his victory over the Young Fool been so long ago?

No, he was in King’s Landing. He was Hand of the King to King—King—a round face, still fat with a childhood not long past, formed in his mind’s eye. Tommen. Joffrey was dead—purple and bloodied by poison and panic. Jaime was—Jaime. And Cersei. Jaime—King Robert. 

“My lord of Lannister, it is good to see you wakeful,” a soft voice burbled to his left, and a cool cloth touched his brow a moment before he opened his eyes again. He was so tired, his entire body ached and protested every breath. Varys—the whisperer. The spider. The vile whimpering rat that had thwarted or aided Tywin as it took him by turns. Tywin gagged and coughed suddenly, barely retaining control over his bladder and bowels with the force of his coughing. It was unbecoming of a Lannister to soil himself in bed, no matter his state of illness. 

“Jaime, where is Jaime,” he rasped, hating that this was his end. Attended by a eunuch while his son—his sons—his son—

“Rest yourself, my lord of Lannister, it is unbecoming to begin dribbling. Your sons are both in Dorne, and of Dorne. Three you took from Dorne, and three you’ve given,” Varys said in his wobbling voice, a little smile poking his cheeks up, “all in threes. There was a prophecy once, one that my lord Prince Rhaegar held dear to the grief of the Realm. A number of threes to be had there, though. And three were the Houses that saw to his end, but it is only one that I have borne grudge towards.”

Tywin tried to roll further away from the Master of Whispers, tried to muster enough strength to call out for his guards. But it was so difficult—where was Jaime? Tommen? The scions of his legacy. One sent to Dorne—Jaime—the other already soon to be a father. Three—

“But to the matter at hand, I do apologize for delaying you with my reminisces,” Varys said. Reminisces? Delaying—Delaying?

“The Stark girl has defied all prayers and bets against her, she is truly remarkable my lord. Little Sansa Stark, the littlest bird but one that never sang to me. I admired her lies, meager as they were she flourished in her cage. You hoped and bet that she would bear a girl—or if you were lucky, have her bleed to death as her grandmothers did in the birthing bed. Two boys, named for the Red Viper of Dorne and for the Blackfish of Riverrun. You might consider yourself lucky that neither will lay hands on you.”

His eyes widened to the point of pain—Stark. Sansa Stark—raped on her wedding night and kept abed by her murderous heathen of a husband. Sold away to keep the peace. Boys. Twin boys—

“One for Riverrun and one for Winterfell, yes. Heirs for the fish and the wolves. The girl is young enough, she may give her husband a whole pack someday.”

Boys. He had boys—one and one half. The Starks were all dead though, the last sold into a Dornishman’s bed. Tywin tried to sit up but the movement made him sick to his stomach. He stopped—if he vomited he’d choke on it, and he had the feeling that Varys, who still patted his arm and hand with the damp cloth, wouldn’t be exactly jumping to help him. Where was Kevan? Jaime? His trusted brother and his son—where was his son’s son? Cersei. 

“I wonder that you never thought to replace me, after finding I advised the Mad King to deny you entrance to the city. I wept once the city was won for Robert, for the first time in so many years in earnest. Little Aegon called me Wawa, his sister let me feed her cat. Their mother cooked honey and spices into her wine and shared stories of Dorne with me.”

Tywin twitched his head, trying to clear his mind of cobwebs and focus on whatever riddles the Spider was twisting about his head. He remembered the bloody red cloaks soaked darker than wine. The body of a woman jumbled up for her bottom half was separated from her top, her body smeared with bloody handprints made by massive palms and fingers. 

“I was to get her and her children out of the city, or implore Robert to wed her and adopt her children. Instead he smiled at the feast you laid before him—and married your daughter.”

“Useless, useless to tell a dying man. I won, Jaime—Cersei, To—I won. The dead do not speak or hunger for revenge. Only the living, your prince and princess are dead.” Tywin knew somewhere that he was rambling but he felt that the eunuch needed to know. It did not matter what a man had done other than the legacy—

“The poison was more effective than I had thought, I admit,” Varys said, almost not listening to Tywin himself, “and the antidote as well. Who would suspect me of poisoning you when we have shared the same wine from the same pitcher for nigh on a year? Now though,” he said, and Tywin squinted to focus on the cup of lemon water that Varys now swirled contemplatively, “we need something painless.”

“Guards—damn you to seven hells, guards,” he tried. His voice barely seemed to reach the walls let alone bounce from them. 

“Oh, you are in the royal apartments upon the order of King Tommen. The nearest guards are several doors down near Queen Margaery’s chambers,” Varys said, patting Tywin’s shoulder comfortingly, “and she ensured that they did not see my passage here.” He turned once more to the cup, the clear glass revealing the single slice of lemon floating there. The fat man tipped a vial of orange liquid into it and then set it aside at the bedside. He tipped a second vial into the water jug. 

“Prince Oberyn said that the Creeping Age would work slow enough for our purposes, but should I need to speed the plan that Grandmother’s Slippers would work to my needs. A kinder death than you afforded his sister, but I think as traumatic and ultimate. Your daughter will be found guilty—your son Tyrion married irrevocably to Dorne, watched at every turn and kept as Princess Arianne’s pet husband. Your beloved Jaime—oh yes. He has been taken as dearest sword to Queen Daenerys.”

“I will not drink it,” Tywin managed. Varys gave him a kindly smile. 

“You will. You won’t remember this conversation in an hour’s time, you’ll ask for water. You’ll be thirsty, and the fever will have you asking for a second glass. The lightheadedness a third. These things come in threes, my lord of Lannister,” the Spider said, pressing a kiss to Tywin’s forehead like he was comforting a child. Tywin groaned and growled, trying to sit up to strangle the man, stomp him to death as he should have decades ago—and blacked out. 

When he woke again his grandson sat at his side, the boy already maturing into a man. A look-alike of Jaime. Hopefully his little queen had realized the importance of birthing a dark haired child. Jaime—where was Jaime? He was so tired, and he had so much to tell his son. There was so much to teach him and—

“Are you thirsty, Grandfather?” Tywin scowled doubtfully at the cup of water at his bedside, shaking his head and asking a fresh one be poured. Tommen gave him a bright smile and did as he asked. The lemon water tasted curiously sweet, and of oranges. A servant quickly took both cup and pitcher, saying that the Lord Hand would prefer to share wine with His Grace the King as was their wont. Tommen had smiled and waved the girl on towards her duty. 

Tywin had a passing thought as he felt feverish once more: why had the lemon water tasted—of Dornish oranges?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"It is called Grandmother's Slippers, and will be painless," he said softly, "you may take it alone, it tastes like oranges, or mix it into wine or water, but not milk or food. You will feel feverish and short of breath a few minutes after taking it, and then faint away within the hour. Nothing will revive you before it has taken its course, I promise you."_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> This is the last we'll be hearing from Tywin in Tywin's POV because he's a goner now. 
> 
> So -- let me know what you thought of this chapter? I'm excited to hear!


	84. Cersei, Arya, Daemon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I worked really hard to get this chapter written and done before I go to England because I'm not sure how much time I will have to write while I'm there (until the 24th...). SO! Here we have Cersei, Arya, and Daemon's POVs. I hope you enjoy them!!

 

Cersei paced around the small chamber they were keeping her in until the trial started later in the day. She’d be found guilty, she knew, and would have to bear the punishment that the Faith meted out to her. Likely some sort of public flogging or a walk of penitence. She’d have the chance, of course, to request a trial by combat of some sort to put off the sentence a little longer if not suspend it entirely. 

‘Guilty by the laws of men but innocent in the eyes of the Gods,’ it would be declared, if such a combat was won by her champion. At least the humiliation of the sentence would be softened in that the men of the Reach would not also share their thoughts on her breasts and hips. They would instead recount how her champion had disarmed the champion of the Faith, how the Gods favored such a lovely woman. Regardless of the outcome though she would enter a period of restriction of one year, to ensure she carried no bastard in her belly. 

She grimaced at the thought of sleeping in a Septa’s cell between two Septas. Another would sleep below her window, another at her doorway. A fifth Septa would keep watch all night in the corner of the room. The four sleepmates would accompany her everywhere, while the fifth took her rest. She’d watched such treatment be given to a woman in Lannisport once, when she was a maiden newly flowered, and Cersei had vowed to never be caught up in such a business. 

So much for that. 

At least Lady Alerie and Lady Olenna were pretending to be kind faces towards her—saying all manner of things in her defense. She was a widow who had lost one of her children to death and another to marriage in a far-off land. She was but a woman and slave to her desire for her future husband. It was nonsense, but Cersei cautiously appreciated their help. If they had left her out to dry, the Faith would have run rampant against her with their charges. 

Instead the ladies of Highgarden worked to make-believe that they enjoyed Cersei’s company and she theirs. It had been useful so far to play along—but once Jaime had seen to the Faith’s champion she fully intended on having Father wreak havoc on the snivelling Septons who had gone after her. 

“Lady Cersei? A raven has come for you, bearing the King’s Seal,” Lord Willas called through the door. The Septas set aside their needlework—and Cersei took a moment to stretch her cramping fingers, for she did needlework right along with them to show how dutiful and accomplished she was as a lady. It had been years since she’d picked up needlework in a serious manner, other than appearing wifely during the few times Robert had seen fit to spend private time with her with their clothes on. 

“Will you consent to Septa Qirelle reading your letter aloud? We don’t wish to disturb you at your work,” one of the women asked. Cersei nodded, trying desperately to appear calm and nonchalant. Surely this was a letter from Father saying that he’d commanded Jaime to return from Dorne to fight for her honor against the claims of the Faith. 

“My lady mother, it grieves me to pass this news to you for I know it will bring you pain. If it is not impertinent, I can say we now share the pain of having lost a father. The Lord Hand, Tywin of House Lannister, passed away in the evening last night after a protracted illness. My sadness is without limit, as is my wife’s, and I only wish you were able to travel to King’s Landing to see Lord Lannister interred. As soon as he is laid to rest my wife and I will begin making preparations to travel to Highgarden. Queen Margaery has long wished me to meet the rest of her family, and it was one of Grandfather’s last intentions to lend any aid to the Faith needed to help them deduce the truth of the claims against you. My wife and I intend on carrying on that intention. All our love, King Tommen—”

Cersei tuned out the rest of it. Her father was dead—and all the better, for it seemed he intended on helping the Faith rather than helping her. He disowned her by doing so, choosing his ‘legacy’ over his daughter. A son could always pass the legacy—the family name—but rarely did the daughter. She had never been his concern, only his pawn. 

It enraged her, and Cersei took full advantage of her ‘bereavement’ by throwing her needlework to the floor and throwing herself to her bed and screaming. One of the Septas quickly sat and patted at her shoulder as she howled, and Cersei let tears slip down her cheeks for the woman’s benefit. A good daughter wept for her father, she didn’t curse him—so she uttered no words, only whimpering and sobbing. Father would not have helped her, and so his death was a boon if anything. Tommen was wound around the Tyrell bitch’s little finger but he no doubt could be swayed for a day or two in Cersei’s favor. 

A day or two is all she’d need.

* * *

 

Arya sat outside of the cell they kept the Hound in. She wasn’t dumb—the Martells bore no love for any Clegane, no matter their recent services or accomplishments. They’d get rid of her Hound if she wasn’t careful, even though Sansa had herself voiced a wish that Sandor Clegane be released once he was deemed ‘safe,’—whatever that meant. Arya did appreciate her sister’s words though.

She and Sansa existed in an easy truce together, although sometimes Arya felt the urge to be on her own. Her mother’s uncle, Brynden Tully, had joked one morning when he caught her climbing a pomegranate tree that she’d been half-wild for too long. He hadn’t said it was a bad thing, just gave her a whiskery smile and walked on through the garden towards where Sansa and her pack of family were.

“They’ll offer you freedom, I heard, if you take up arms for them,” she said as she carved an apple to share. The Hound huffed a laugh but took the piece of fruit that she handed to him nonetheless. They both knew how he felt about shits of kings and queens, and given what she’d heard from Sansa of Aegon’s ‘test’ both Arya and the Hound were well shot of such people. Sansa’s voice had trembled and quivered, and a few tears had fallen as she recounted that it reminded her of the day Joffrey took their father’s head. 

It reminded Arya much more of the way the Mad King had had murdered their grandsire and uncle, though she was sure that her sister’s mind also tracked to those unfortunate men. 

“They’ll offer me the same freedom that bucket of vomit Joffrey did to Eddard Stark,” her companion growled. Arya frowned, grabbing another apple from the satchel the cooks had given her. Sansa had been among these folk a year now, borne children fathered by one of them too, and her sister said that they could trust the Dornish at their word. Arya wondered if her sister was still somehow naive and innocent to the wiles used by men of power. 

“I don’t think that Prince Doran is mad—”

“He’s mad as they come, little cat. When the Red Viper took my brother’s head he put it in a jar, and first morning in this shithole in comes the crippled prince. Trundles in on his wheeled chair while a brace of servants come in holding that jar. And there’s Gregor, his head bouncing like a rabbit’s, while the cripple drones on about Cleganes and Martells and justice and fairness. As I said, mad.”

Arya swallowed, looking hard at her hands—the apple in one, the sharp little knife that Prince Oberyn had given her—and squared her shoulders before she met the Hound’s gaze once more. 

“Don’t pretend you didn’t want him dead,” she finally said, “they had the luxury of taking a prize, something I’ve not been able to. Something you’ve not been able to do either. They did us a favor. And my sister at least thinks she’s happy, and that’s a sight better than living in King’s Landing with Joffrey.”

In truth Arya found herself liking Dorne. Prince Oberyn’s younger daughters roughhoused and played with her the way she’d always played with her brothers when she could. And even though he’d privately scolded her for terribly frightening her sister, Prince Oberyn had gifted Arya with a wicked looking dagger and short sword. The sword—the Prince had smiled indulgently when she called it thus—was an ancient Rhoynish weapon called a chroysar and Arya loved that it wasn’t too big for her. 

She tried very hard to keep her wits about her though and not be plied into submission with gifts and flattery. Playmates and swords were all well and good—but this world wasn’t one where such things were had without payment. Arya was very much waiting for the flip, the demands and abuse that would come with it. She wanted to believe she was ready. 

First she would get the Hound out of his kennel and then grab her sister if she could—though fathering her children had probably given Prince Oberyn a mastery over Sansa that Arya would be hard pressed to break. Any flight for the three of them would necessitate leaving Sansa’s boys behind, and Arya was deeply unsure if her sister could be made conscious of danger to herself when faced with abandoning her children. The rumors coming out of the Twins after Mother’s and Robb’s murders said that Mother had been much the same. 

It was a paralytic kind of love, and one Arya wanted very much to never experience. Children were the future, she could grant anyone that, but she needed to be able to escape or free herself easily. Babes and toddlers in swaddling would only trip her up and get all of them killed. When men got it in their minds to kill mothers and babes the babes never survived—why should Arya herself die too?

The Hound shared her sentiments, she knew, though for his own reasons. She knew he’d wanted to bed Sansa even when they’d been together in King’s Landing—she’d be even more desirable to him now that she’d been taught the ways of bedsport and no pesky bits of honor prevented him from taking her innocence. The twins though—they were not welcome in conversation with him. Arya got the feeling that when he thought of his ‘little bird’ bedding someone so much older than herself he grew angry that he hadn’t done it himself, territorial over something that wasn’t his to claim anyway. 

That Sansa had declined moon tea showed she wanted to be with child by her older, violent, rage-filled husband. Though Arya herself wanted no children, she could understand how such a notion might anger Sandor Clegane.

* * *

 

Daemon had obeyed his princess when she asked him to stay looking over her sons--she would only be gone an hour, merely going on a visit to the hapless pretender, she'd assured him. When all three of Oberyn's infant children demanded their meals, though, he obeyed Ellaria in fetching Princess Sansa to help relieve the strain of whimpering babes. 

When he heard the screaming start--and then suddenly stop--he broke into a run. Ser Jon Connington had probably attached the princess, who was little match against such a big man. The sight that greeted him was so much worse though--the pretender was dragging Princess Sansa to the part of the sand gardens where the Queen kept her dragons. Princess Sansa herself was weeping and screaming in pain and fear, calling out for help and unable to get her feet under herself due to her skirts and the grip Aegon had on her hair. 

Daemon shouted for guards as well as directing someone, a young squire he dimly remembered was named Lauel, to fetch Queen Daenerys--no matter where she was or what she was doing. He felt cold sweat drip down the small of his back as he caught a glimpse of silver in Aegon's hand. A maester's lancette, not enough to pierce the leather tunic that Daemon himself wore but certainly a lady's throat would pose no issue. 

The silver haired man would die. Regardless--no, with extreme regard--to what happened to Princess Sansa, Aegon Dragonseed would die. If he killed her, Daemon would feed Aegon to dogs bit by bit while the man still lived. As though summoned by his unconscious prayer, Rickon Stark burst through into the courtyard, clinging to the back of his biggest direwolf. The little boy looked more feral than his wolves, growling and baring his teeth--but he seemed to see the same small, wickedly sharp knife that Daemon did. 

They ultimately had no choice but to follow the pretender into the courtyard where Queen Daenerys' dragons rested. 

"Make them come to me," Aegon shouted, shaking Princess Sansa by her hair, his burned hand--an oozing bloody mess as the bandages fluttered with his every movement--waving out wildly towards the monstrous beasts. How he kept a grip on the lancette was a mystery--his hand must have been in agony, but his apparent madness probably dulled the pain. 

"Useless whore," Aegon screamed, bending down to Sansa's ear, "make them come. Make them--your brother is a child and he controls dogs with ease. Dogs! Are Stark women only useful for warming a man's bed? Bring me the white," his manner changed suddenly, caressing her cheek with the lancette and cajoling in his tone, "I'll make you Queen." Sansa didn't try to shrink from him, using her flinch to minimize how hard he pulled her hair when his mood flicked away from sweetness. 

"I'll make you Queen, or I'll open your useless throat," he shouted.

Rickon slid from his perch on his wolf, his form suddenly boneless and Daemon was momentarily torn between going to him or trying to get close enough to knock Aegon down. He'd just elected to rescue--or try to rescue--Sansa when the green dragon, Rhaegal, padded closer to where Aegon stood. His heart seizing in horror, Daemon froze and gestured for those just arriving to stay back. The black dragon avoided confrontations and flew away more often than not, the white following its lead. The green was the wily one that had once spit fire on Prince Quentyn. 

"Can't see colors, girl? The world just a mess of Stark gray?" there was excitement now in the man's voice, boyish even, "It's no matter. Green or white, a dragon's a dragon," he said leaning down kiss Princess Sansa's cheek as he let her go. Before he took a step away he patted her head. As the princess shakingly crawled back a little, Daemon felt his insides unfreeze--though he wasn't sure he'd keep control of his bowels when this was over. Princess Sansa was taking deep gulps of air as he stealthily made his way to her and picked her up. 

She was shaking terribly, but wound her fingers into the bit of his tunic she could get at. Oberyn--and little Arya Stark--would murder Aegon, Daemon had time to think as he looked at her tearstained and bruised face. Her blue eyes were wide with terror. 

She was not the one making the green sniff and chirrup at Aegon. Daemon didn't have time to look to Rickon before Rhaegal let out a bellow of sudden rage and batted Aegon from his feet. The lancette skittered away, flashing in the watery sunlight that made it through the cloud cover. Aegon's surprised yelp turned into wails of pain as the dragon quickly held him down with one taloned foot, chewing on the man's legs with long black teeth. 

When he saw the wolves, Daemon pressed Princess Sansa's head to his chest, covering her other ear with his hand. The direwolves descended to feeding soon after. If Aegon's shouting from his trial-by-fire had been haunting, the shrieks of agony and pain would be sickeningly enduring for years to come. After what she'd been through, his princess did not deserve such memories. 

Oberyn's hand on his shoulder startled him and he looked up to see himself surrounded by men-at-arms and other guards. Princess Sansa was still shaking in his arms, her eyes wide and staring. It was a bit difficult, but Daemon managed to stand and pass the young woman to her husband. She whimpered softly, barely audible. 

"Get her brother, keep her sister away from Myles," Oberyn said. 

"Myles?"

Oberyn nodded, whispering something into Princess Sansa's ear and nuzzling her cheek with his nose. 

"He seems to have left them unattended, but I doubt Lady Stark will take it so innocently," he said before hitching his wife up a little and resting her head on his shoulder as he walked. The young woman started to cry, and though her sobs were soft they nonetheless echoed in the courtyard, and Daemon decided the best way to keep Maester Myles safe was to collect Rickon and the maester and go somewhere among a lot of more common people. Once Arya Stark--the Oberyn to Princess Sansa's Prince Doran--heard those mournful sounds she wouldn't hesitate to find out the root of them.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and thoughts and curiosity sustains me more than I think many of you know, so please let me know what you thought of this chapter! I've been really excited to write it for a long time, and now it's here! So yes. Thank you for reading, and I hope that you liked it!


	85. Arya, Oberyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I got sick (nothing too bad, just a cold) and have had time to write because I've had a spot of down time. Here in this chapter we have Arya and Oberyn, though never the twain shall meet. In this chapter.

Arya was at a loss at what to do with Rickon, who was still deeply ensconced in his trance. 

She’d heard the shouting and running of servants and men-at-arms, following them to the dragon enclosure where Rickon’s wolves and Daenerys’ dragons feasted upon a man’s bones. She’d stood with her mouth hanging open, for though Rickon was half-wild his pack had never so much as bitten someone, only to be startled out of her reverie by a man’s fingertips touching her arm. 

Ser Daemon, Sansa’s sworn sword, stood with Rickon slung over his shoulder.

“Come away, Lady Stark, let us find the Blackfish.” His tone was firm as he looked down at her. Arya frowned up at him instead of budging an inch. 

“Not Sansa?”

“Princess Sansa is indisposed for the moment. Prince Oberyn is seeking to calm her now,” Ser Daemon said, his voice gentling with a kind of sadness. She flicked her gaze from Rickon to her sister’s sworn sword before she turned to walk with him. Her brother hung limp, though his eyes were wide open and white as milk. Arya shuddered and looked away quickly. 

“Why’s no one stopping the dragons—and the wolves?”

Ser Daemon took a deep breath in and readjusted his hold on Rickon. There was a certain bizarrely satisfied resignation in his demeanor, as though what had happened was a forgone conclusion. A conclusion he found no fault in. 

“The Pretender attacked your sister, took her to the dragonyard. He wanted to make her possess one of them, or he said he’d kill her. For whatever reason she could not or would not. Your brother did though and tore the man into pieces for the direwolves. I could not have stopped him, and I do not regret that I did not try.”

Arya’s heart stuttered a little at the thought that her sister had been nearly killed by another blonde idiot but she calmed herself down quickly. Rickon had taken care of the one responsible, and Aegon had likely died in as much pain and terror as Arya herself would have hungered him to had she gotten her hands on him. She felt a chill pass through her when she thought of what Sansa’s murderous husband would have wanted to do to someone who attacked his wife. 

It was better for all involved that the man died of being attacked and eaten by dragons and direwolves—to have a relative, even a distant one, of the Targaryens murdered by a Martell or a Stark would only lead to people saying things. Things that didn’t need to be said because they just weren’t true. 

When they found the Blackfish he was loitering outside of Sansa’s chambers—not standing guard exactly but there was a certain wariness to him that left it clear that he worried after something. Arya managed to give him a good solid nod, as though he could relax now, and received one in return. It was not as calming as she’d have hoped, but it was good to know he was in one piece and hadn’t been murdered to get at Sansa. Such a thing would have been in the realm of Arya’s luck concerning family of late. 

“The children?” 

“All the little ones and babes accounted for, aye,” the Blackfish answered Ser Daemon’s question, casting a suspicious eye at how Rickon lay like a sack of potatoes across the knight’s shoulder, “and Prince Oberyn entered just a few minutes ago. I heard talk of the dragonyard, earlier.”

“The Pretender—” Ser Daemon started, and Arya found it in herself to interrupt.

“Another Targaryen trying to light another Stark on fire.” It wasn’t strictly true, though. Aegon had been a bastard if anything, or one of the smallfolk of Dragonstone, and Sansa clung as tightly to the name Stark as she did Martell. But in the memory of bards and singers Arya knew that the events would be attributed to the ones that they harkened back to. She herself knew how fast a story could change in a single night, let alone months across thousands of leagues.

 

* * *

Sansa’s tears had made a wet spot on his shoulder by the time he got back to their chambers. She was terribly silent and still in his arms otherwise and Oberyn’s heart ached for her. Thank the Gods that Ellaria had sent Ser Daemon to fetch Sansa, or what hapless guard would have arrived at their doorway, breathless and terrified to tell them of her demise? As Oberyn called through the door for Ellaria to open up he hoped that Sansa would be able to come through this. 

“I was trying to be a friend to him,” Sansa said, her voice rasping and broken. He laid a kiss to her forehead, turning afterwards to rest his cheek there. 

“You couldn’t have known he would do that,” Oberyn replied as the Blackfish and Ellaria opened the door. His paramour was at first smiling until she saw Sansa and her face contorted in dismay, immediately reaching out and wiping away the tears that still streamed down Sansa’s cheeks. The Blackfish opened the door wide for them and Oberyn made his way quickly to their bed chambers, and laid Sansa on their bed, while Brynden Tully shut the door and stood an impromptu guard outside of it. Ellaria curled up next to Sansa, pulling her close and resting her forehead against the younger woman’s. Oberyn pulled their blankets over them, tucking in the edges properly so that they wouldn’t come loose with his wife’s shivering. 

In the servant’s antechamber, Oberyn found Tevira and Aelaenor folding bed linens and chatting softly in Dornish Valyrian. They put their work aside and stood when they saw him and Oberyn tried to muster a pleasant expression for them. They’d not done anything to merit any ire from him. 

“Please find out if Prince Doran’s soaking tub has been scoured yet today. If it has, let his page know that I’m borrowing it for the afternoon. If it hasn’t, just fetch us a bath as hot as you can get it.” Aelaenor gave a confused glance to Tevira but soon curtsied to fetch the information he wanted. She was ever the assistant, and it was Tevira that directly attended to Sansa and Ellaria. 

“The Gods don’t mean for her to be happy,” Tevira stated with a heavy sigh, bending her head to him as she walked out of the small room. 

“She certainly gets little respite,” he agreed as he followed, “we need food. Good things, hot comfort food, sweets, cheese, the like. Everything as fast as you can get it, she’s had a nasty shock. She needs to feel at home.”

That all done, Oberyn went back to the bedchamber where Ellaria laid gentle kisses against Sansa’s cheeks and lips. Whether she kissed away tears he did not know, but he shed his robes and climbed into bed behind Sansa anyway. His paramour had managed to calm the little babes and now their room was quiet as he curled up behind Sansa. She shook and wept as they caressed her and held her tightly. Oberyn wished he’d not allowed Doran or Daenerys to keep the Pretender close by. A fake was a fake, and they ought to keep such people away. 

In future they would.

“I want to go to the Water Gardens,” Sansa said after a good amount of time had gone by. Tevira was arranging the meal across the room, humming softly under her breath as she worked. The brief brightness of the morning had gone, the overcast skies darkening as rain fell steadily through the afternoon as it grew late. Sansa had gone still in their arms, only an occasional quiver going through her. 

Oberyn kissed her shoulder all the way up to her neck, nosing her hairline and resting his forehead on the back of her head. 

“Nothing bad happened there, no one broke in, the girls played in the pools,” Sansa continued, trailing off in a flinch when Aelaenor and another handmaiden came in with Doran’s soaking tub and banged one side of it against the doorway. Most bathing tubs in Dorne weren’t for soaking in, because it wasn’t worth wasting the water during the Summer but Doran had a special one brought from the Riverlands. The handmaidens started to heat the water for the bath, and Oberyn gently extricated himself from the pile they’d formed on the bed. Tevira had done a wonderful job of getting what he’d wanted. 

There were purple Dornish potatoes, baked with bacon laid over top, served with sour clotted yogurt, soft white cheese, and green scallions. Also were dragon and batla peppers, cured in sugar and cinnamon, with thick cream to dip them into to take the edge of their heat off. There were a few dishes Sansa had taught the kitchens herself, hearty Northron recipes that wouldn’t suit a single day of Dornish Summer but were a treat to the Dornish who shivered and wrapped up tightly against what to Sansa, Arya, and Rickon were warm Summer days. Among a few other things there was mutton spiced liberally with sage, mint, berry preserves, honey, and salt—cooked until it melted in the mouth when hot, and could be sliced like butter when cold and put between pieces of bread. Were it not for war being what took him away, Oberyn was otherwise glad he wouldn’t be spending all of the Winter with his wife and lover—their cooking and appetites were sure to bring him low as no warrior in all of Westeros had ever managed to do. He knew he’d go to fat eventually as all men did, but he vainly wanted to put it off a few more years at least.

Tevira and her assistants continued bringing boiling hot water in for the soaking tub, adding soft perfumed oils to the bath as they slowly filled it. Oberyn meanwhile filled a long platter with food and coaxed Sansa into sitting up so she might pick at it. The front of her dress, a playful orange and gray one that Tyene had given her, was ruined from the fluids that Aegon’s wound had leaked—blood turning an ugly brown and puss discoloring the fabric awfully, with some dye leaking away and some darkening in place. The same mix had also dried to her chest and neck and must have itched terribly. 

“Before I leave Dorne, I will take you to the Water Gardens myself,” Oberyn said, breaking the long silence as Sansa lifted a bit of mutton, the juice running down her fingers, to Ellaria’s lips. She didn’t pause, didn’t falter from her course, instead she shuffled a bit to rest her head on their lover’s shoulder. Ellaria smiled and dipped a finger into the cream and swiped it along her lower lip before turning so she could kiss Sansa. 

“Prince Oberyn, the bath is ready. Do you require anything else for now?” He tore his attention from how delicately Ellaria tended to Sansa to send the handmaidens away. Oberyn hoped that the children—any and all of them—were able to miss their parent’s attention for spell longer. He stripped his breeches and smallclothes off and got in the tub, briefly hissing at how hot it still was—only the last third or quarter of water added was merely warm, the rest was boiled to ensure the whole thing stayed warm long enough to matter. With quiet efficiency he washed his hair and body, grabbing at one of the several drying sheets that had been left and wrapping it around himself. 

Sansa and Ellaria had finished picking at the food he’d brought, kissing desperately and gradually loosening stays and ties on their clothes. Oberyn set aside the platter and drew them apart, kissing first Ellaria and then Sansa, so they could undress. Sansa especially needed to soak away the terror of the day, and wash off the remnants of Aegon’s brief kidnapping of her. 

His wife’s face was bruised, one of her eyes swollen nearly shut, but she’d not been otherwise outwardly harmed. Her barely-scabbed over mental scars had been ripped freshly open with new wounds, and it would be a long time before Sansa would be so open or sweet to another. Oberyn couldn’t have pointed out his exact evidence for such an observation but he knew that her kindness to Aegon had been selfless and sweet—she had looked so small and broken in Daemon’s arms.

One of the palace squires had found him, the boy panting out that Princess Sansa had been attacked, and that Ser Daemon Sand sent for aid. By the time Oberyn arrived, Daemon had gotten Sansa into his arms, holding her close to his chest and covering her ears against the sounds of the dragon and wolves devouring Aegon Dragonseed. Thankfully the man was dead and there were no more screams between the growling of beasts and wet ripping of flesh—Sansa had been insensible as Daemon had passed her into Oberyn’s arms, recognizing him only by scent for he was sure her eyes told her nothing despite their wideness. After that she had only tears to give. 

Ellaria stepped into the bath first, giving a steadying hand to Sansa as she followed and letting the younger woman sit between her legs as Oberyn helped wash away the blood left by Aegon’s wound. Just as they were finishing and Sansa was about to sink into Ellaria’s arms, a single mewling cry went up from the nursery and for the first time since Elia’s birth Oberyn wished for a wet nurse. 

“Oberyn?” Sansa was giving him her best attempt at a cajoling smile despite the swelling on one side of her face, and Oberyn couldn’t help but obey. With a few quick strides he soon returned with Brynden who had been briefly tided over with the little milk Ellaria had been able to give him earlier in the day. It was his needs—and the fact that his sister and brother had taken hearty draughts just before him—that had had Ellaria sending for Daemon to fetch Sansa. 

“Bryn, my darling boy,” Sansa cooed after Oberyn unwrapped the swaddling from around the boy so he could lay skin to skin with his mother. His wife leaned back on Ellaria as she laid the babe on her belly and let him find his way to latching to her breast. Oberyn touched the tuft of black hair that shot up from his son’s head before standing, admiring the little curls it already twisted into. With a warm smile he left once more to the nursery. Visenya had left herself a present, or so he surmised from the smell over her bassinet, and he would see to her before she saw fit to wake herself in a screaming rage. She was just as fiery as any of his girls despite the trauma of her birth, and at the moment Sansa needed as much peace and quiet as he could give her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on the train to Scotland tomorrow and hope to get a lot of writing done then...! In the meantime, please do let me know what you think of the story, and thank you ever so much for reading it!


	86. Shireen, Margaery, Arya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been AWOL! I got sick on my trip and only just now have had things really slow down enough for me to start writing. 
> 
> So this chapter is getting some new arcs, big and small, going and I hope it isn't too busy for you. Enjoy!

 

Ser Davos’ breath was humid on her cheek as he clutched her to his front as he stole through the tents at the outer edges of the camp. Shireen, wrapped up in as many furs as she could find in the scant minutes that the Onion Knight had given her, resisted crying as out in the center of the camp Lady Melisandre questioned Shireen’s mother about her intention to sacrifice herself to the Lord of Light. Among Mother’s pronouncements was one that she was obedient to the needs of her King, unlike some others in her family. That she would sacrifice herself to give her husband's army the advantage in finding and eliminating the Bolton army. Though without Lord Roose or his bastard, the Bolton men had put up a considerable fight to stay alive as King Stannis pursued them through the increasingly impassable frozen North. Now, Lady Melisandre had convinced Queen Selyse that the sacrifice of 'Nyssa Nyssa' had to be made for Azor Ahai to take his full power. 

It made Shireen want to scream for someone to stop them—but Father had acquiesced when Mother had declared this to be her dearest wish, to serve her beloved King and her beloved Lord of Light. And once Father had made up his mind it was a rare man that dared tell him his business. One such man had been Jon Snow of the Night’s Watch, another had been Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbor. The most regular of such men was the one currently swinging her up onto his horse, the Onion Knight Ser Davos Seaworth. His compass always pointed towards the good, with Father as his North Star each and every day until this one.  


“I left a note for your father, if he wishes to claim you he’s to make his way to Winterfell. We cannot go further North in pursuit of the Watch’s kindness, and to continue with the army is madness. A mother's love protects above all her children, and soon you'll not have one,” Ser Davos had said in a low voice when he’d burst into her tent. Shireen had hidden there rather than watch her mother, grinning like a woman possessed, willingly stand upon the pyre. If Father ever became King-enthroned, and Shireen then Queen after him, she would never permit such madness in her name—even if the one afflicted appeared willing. 

“What if he worries?” she whispered as Ser Davos had his horse first pad away from the camp, concealing in the deep powdered snow the beast’s footfalls, and then begin to trot away at a good pace. 

“Then he’ll be a widower who worries, Princess, and I sounded it all out before I left it to know it was spelled right. His Grace will see reason, I think. If he does not then I can only hope that Lord Manderly can open his heart and his gates to two half-frozen Southroners.” Her Onion Knight tried to inject a little humor into his tone but it fell far short. They both remembered the day that Lord Manderly had sent Father away from Winterfell with his own fur cloak and best wishes.  


Peeking up over Ser Davos’ shoulder as they rode off into the deepening twilight and darkness, Shireen couldn't help but let a few tears fall as she saw the huge plume of red and orange smoke coming up into the sky. In the ashes and embers her mother’s soul went flying—to what end and which gods, she knew not.

* * *

 

Margaery frowned at the wiggling in her belly. Her little bastard to secure her—and her family’s—power in the Realm. Grandmother would be proud of her ingenuity now as she used the escape routes she had carefully planned out. With Tywin gone Tommen was becoming a liability to himself and to her—he knew enough of running a kingdom to feel he could wait for Kevan Lannister’s arrival to the capitol, naming the man as Hand at her suggestion but failing to appoint an Acting Hand until the man presented himself to the court. 

There was also the offhand comment from Lord Varys, one meant surely for her ears and anything but an accident, that the Dragon Queen of Meereen had abandoned Meereen to its dark fate. He did not say where she had gone but Margaery knew there were a few places that would accept the woman—places with ties open to bind her closer. There was the Vale, with either Jon Arryn’s sickly son or his distant relation from House Hardyng. Also there was Stannis Baratheon who might see a more legitimate claim to the throne than even his own. Her brother’s friends, the Martells, might even be persuaded to forgive Rhaegar’s old slight and try once more for a Martell-Targaryen alliance. 

In short, it was no longer safe in the capitol for her or Tommen. With their marriage consummated and with an heir on the way she could not hope the Dragon Queen would consider them a non-issue. There was also the issue of Lord Varys—she could trust him so far as Tommen held power, but the second that Daenerys Targaryen showed her face to the Realm that trust would be foolish to count on at best. 

So now she put up with Tommen’s excited planning for repairing and healing the land—the Riverlands had suffered greatly, almost unnecessarily in his view, and he wanted to start with them first. There was a place waiting for Tommen amongst a brotherhood of septons who were ministering to the smallfolk. Aside from his plans of ruling, Tommen was most excited to spend a few weeks with them upon their return journey from Highgarden. 

Looking out the window of their little carriage as it rocked and bucked along the road, Margaery wondered how they would find Lady Cersei. Willas’ letters spoke of a woman broken by the death of Lord Tywin, but Grandmother’s told a story of calculated grief mixed with barely concealed moments of impious rage and overindulgence. The Faith had been swayed to hold her and Willas’ trial upon the arrival of the King, for he wanted to support both the Faith and his own mother.

* * *

 

Rickon and Arya crept into Sansa’s chambers—passing under the stern eye of many guards as they did so. She hadn’t felt like a child in a long time but the gimlet eye that Ser Deziel Dalt gave her had her remembering the few times that her father would have a harsh word for her. The Blackfish was a bit warmer, as was Ser Daemon. The clicking of claws also had the two Starks being quiet. Rickon’s direwolves had not settled down fully after their feeding frenzy, growling at strangers and warily avoiding the touch of even those they knew. 

It had been a day and still the actions of Aegon Dragonseed rocked the goings on of the heads of the restoration. At first, Arya had heard by listening around corners and other things, the Dragon Queen had been furious that her bastard relative had met his end in such a manner. Then it had been made clear, very suddenly, that the Volantenes supported her only for justice for their lost daughter. It meant that Sansa’s interests were more important than Queen Daenerys’ by way of the marriage between Robb and Talisa of the House Maegyr. Arya’s face twisted even now thinking of such political machinations—they were why her father was dead, why her mother and brother and goodsister and a nephew never born were all dead. 

Ellaria had come to them the night before as they had supper with Osha, trailed by Obara and Nymeria, to explain that Sansa hadn’t yet slept and needed space and rest. That they would send for Arya and Rickon once she was better settled. It had hurt a bit that they, her relatives by blood, were excluded for a time but there was ultimately nothing for it. Prince Oberyn had had guards posted on the ground where Arya had once made her climb from the gardens to the balcony terrace that led to her sister’s chambers. 

Her goodbrother was seated in the main room as they entered, holding his youngest daughter in his arms and softly speaking to the child. He seemed tranquil and happy as he let the girl grasp onto one of his fingers. His eyes, so dark a brown they were almost black, flicked up to them as they passed, watching for some kind of deviance. Arya wished not for the first time that there was a way to convince Sansa to leave him. To leave Dorne. But he had tied her sister to him tightly—twin boys, and Arya knew from rumor the lengths that Mother had gone to to retrieve her children. 

“Sansa?” Arya dearly wished that she could just grab her sister and go. But it wasn’t to be—Sansa was curled up on the bed with her sons laid out on the blankets, Ellaria Sand spooned behind her. Her sister was also asleep, one slim hand on the belly of the twin next to her. Ellaria Sand barely turned an eye towards them, instead just continued stroking Sansa’s shoulder and hip. 

“She looks like Mama,” Rickon said in a whisper and she nodded in reply, thinking that the boy didn’t quite know how much Sansa resembled Lady Catelyn at this moment. Once upon a time it had been Mother and Rickon stretched out on the big bed in the lord’s chamber at Winterfell. Of course back then it had been Mother and Father spooned together, and it had been terribly warm in the chamber from the heated pipes and the blazing fire. 

“Arya?”

“Yes, Rickon?”

“I don’t want to be Lord of Winterfell, I don’t want to—” he choked on a sob as he wrapped his skinny arms around Arya’s waist, “—I don’t want to be a Stark,” he managed to say before descending completely into wailing tears. Sansa jerked up from her doze, her eyes searching for the threat that distressed her brother, and at her movement both boys started up crying. Arya stood, mouth hanging open like a fish, as Prince Oberyn strode into the room with a kind of singleminded violent purpose as Arya had seen at times from the Hound. 

At the sight of Rickon, his little mouth distorted with his weeping and his wolves hunkering down—the pups nosing their way between Shaggy and Snappy—Prince Oberyn seemed to reconsider his plan. Their goodbrother knelt down in front of Rickon and opened his arms out wide, holding Rickon tightly when the boy flung himself into them. Arya was still shocked at her brother’s admission. 

No matter what had happened to her she had always wanted to get back to her family—and they would all go back to Winterfell, and she would have them together once again. She had never once wanted to give up the name Stark, but then again she was much older than Rickon and understood what had been done to her family and why. 

Rickon was just a little boy. A remarkable little boy, but Arya could count on one hand the number of namedays he’d seen when the King had departed Winterfell with Father, Sansa, and herself. It would seem to him that being a Stark was not worth it in the end, having been chased from his home, nearly murdered a half a dozen times or more, while also knowing that his siblings and parents were being picked off one by one. 

“You don’t have to be a Stark,” Prince Oberyn was murmuring into Rickon’s ear, having made out what the little boy kept repeating as he picked him up, “no one here will make you take up a mantle not your own. Ever. You’ll be safe here or anywhere in Dorne you choose to go. Perhaps you’d like to go to the Hellholt with Lord Uller, live your life as a little bastard boy with his dogs?”

Rickon was quiet for a long moment, his head tucked under Prince Oberyn’s chin, and behind them Arya could see Sansa trying to arrange and fix her hair. Her fingers seemed to be shaking too badly to properly do it and Ellaria’s gentle fingers lent a hand. 

“They’re not dogs, they’re direwolves,” Rickon eventually murmured, petulant as always against such mislabelings of his pets. 

“Right you are. And who is their wolfherd? A boy named Konnick, I heard the smugglers calling him. Are you the wolfherd?”

It was a long stretch of a moment before Rickon nodded, snuffling loudly against Prince Oberyn’s tunic. Watching them Arya remembered the day that Joffrey had taken Father’s head—Yoren grabbing her roughly, _remember me, boy? Remember me now boy?_ She hadn’t known what he meant then, but she had when he had cut her hair. It was dangerous that day to be a Stark in King’s Landing, for it wasn’t even until much later that she learned Sansa had fainted rather than been stabbed. 

“A clever little wolfherd, and so kind to have given my lady wife one of your direwolves,” Prince Oberyn continued, pacing back and forth as he held Rickon tightly against him, comforting her brother as much as turning his mind from his fear. Watching them, Arya knew that as of this day Rickon Stark was no more—that he and truly died at the hands of Theon Turncloak at Winterfell. Here was some wildling boy kissed by fire and the green touch of the Old Gods, nothing more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think of this chapter! Thank you for reading!!


	87. Ellaria, Edd, Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we hear from Ellaria first, here, and then a new face, and then Jon has his long-awaited slumber party at Starktear/Tower of Joy. It is neither joyful nor a party and he dislikes having attended...
> 
> Thank you all ever so much for reading my story by the way, and I hope that you enjoy this chapter!

It was with a bright smile on her face that Ellaria walked through the palace, leading a young wild woman into the more private parts of the keep. The woman’s name was Gilly and at her side a little boy toddled as quickly as he could. The wildling woman was dressed in the colors of House Qorgyle and looked very fine in them, though she had been hesitant at first to part from Alleras. She’d begun walking after Ellaria when Alleras made it clear that he considered Ellaria to be his own mother, picking up Gilly’s hand and kissing the back of it as he turned to follow Oberyn to Doran’s study. 

Ellaria’s heart had stuttered when she’d come into their chambers and seen Sansa holding one of the ornate daggers she’d been given so many months ago on the road from King’s Landing. Behind her Gilly was talking in a low voice to her son, her words simple but foreign, and for a moment Ellaria was frozen. She did not want to make Sansa feel judged, else she might not share any of her thoughts, but she also did not want to leave a woman and child unattended in the family wing—ultimately Tevira appeared and was able to spirit Gilly into another room for the time being, leaving Ellaria alone with Sansa and her wicked looking dagger. 

It was in a man’s hand a trifle, short and to the point, but in Sansa’s elegant hands it seemed to scream confrontation. In Sansa’s hand, Sansa who had endured so much pain and terror in her short years and had not yet truly escaped it, it meant something more as well. Ellaria feared for a moment that her lover meant to kill herself. 

It was an end to pain but also an end to her smiles, her sleepy kisses and beautiful lullabies. She must have gasped because Sansa startled and nearly dropped the dagger, almost cutting herself as she scrabbled with it briefly. On one hand it was amusing—Sansa had adopted and adapted to so many Dornish things, but with their rebellion nearly upon them Oberyn had been unable to spend much time teaching Sansa what to most Dornishmen was their first weapon. Swords were heavy and wasted metal better used in other fashions, and you could not tie a sword to a pole and expect it to stay there. 

A dagger though was small, light-weight and in duress could be pressed into service as the tip of a spear. It was uncommon to meet someone from Dorne and not see the dagger they possessed—something Sansa probably thought only a formality, for despite going without much training she wore at least one or two of her daggers whenever they entered public spaces. It honored the bannermen who had given them to her as well as allowed her to fit in, and fitting in was something that Sansa dearly wanted out of her life since they’d taken her from King’s Landing. 

“I’m not—I’m,” Sansa stuttered, trying to piece together what exactly Ellaria was seeing. Ellaria remained quiet, walking slowly to sit next to her young lover, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Sansa’s shoulder. The events of the last few days had been alarming and upsetting to all of them, but Sansa the most.

“I want to defend myself,” she eventually said, scooting closer to Ellaria and resting her head on Ellaria’s shoulder, “I don’t want another Aegon to try to take me away from you.”

They sat like that together for a long time, breathing in time as Sansa turned the dagger this way and that in the light. It was a beautiful thing. Double edged with an ebony vulture at the hilt, its eyes marked with tiny topaz gems, it had an ivory hilt that was intricately carved with the house words of House Blackmont Dying is Innocent. The dagger, obviously a gift from Lady Larra Blackmont, was a beautiful gift and sweet in its offhandedness. No one had expected Oberyn to marry anyone, but everyone who had gone with them to King’s Landing had loved him and his family too much to resist honoring his wife. 

So now Sansa had a small collection of daggers, as beautiful and dangerous and varied as Dorne itself, that she only now had time or urge to reflect on. Lovely as the daggers were they were all still functional—and Oberyn was soon to leave with the Targaryen queen, to wage war upon Westeros to put that woman back on the throne. What if he never returned to them? Ellaria knew that Doran would care for them, let them stay in his holdings, and that her own father missed her dearly enough to accept anyone who came trailing behind her to the Hellholt. But Sansa did not, Sansa had been left alone in the world before and been without a single tangible protection. 

The daggers that had been given to her were wondrous and terrifying but they were sharp and they were hers. 

“Daemon will teach you,” Ellaria started to say. 

“If he stays, he might go with the rest of the knights,” Sansa responded, setting the Blackmont dagger to the side and wrapping her arms around Ellaria’s waist. Ellaria laughed, threading her fingers through Sansa’s red hair and marveling at the softness as she always did. 

“He will stay, lover, one of them must.”

“I know,” she replied, a catch in her voice as a few tears slipped down her cheeks, “but Father had to confess to treason so he could go to the Wall and Robb had to go to war. They’re dead now, and Oberyn is so—”

“Bloodthirsty?”

“Impulsive,” Sansa said, a wet giggle following the word. Ellaria laughed with her, turning her face to kiss her, feathering her lips on Sansa’s and loving every sigh she got for her efforts. Eventually they settled, sitting with their foreheads pressed close. 

“Your lord father was wrongfully executed my darling,” she murmured, eyes closed as she imagined what Eddard Stark might have looked, proud and loving as a lord of the North and father to Sansa and her siblings. He was square faced and solid, according to Sansa, and Arya. Rickon, the poor child, hardly remembered what his father looked like—only his smell, one of iron shavings and pine. 

“And your brother was lost to treachery, not on the battlefield. Oberyn has led men before, and he has followed other men too. He will come back to us, we’ve given him too many reasons not to.”

Sansa picked up the Blackmont dagger again, twisting it so it sparked and flashed in the light. Ellaria watched as she gripped it tightly in the manner that Oberyn had managed to teach her. Her young lover would never be a warrior such as Obara or Nymeria, nor even Tyene, but she would be able to defend herself. The pain of her past would not revisit her if Sansa herself could help it and that was all the difference.

* * *

 

There had been one night where Edd thought they were done for. Jon’s precarious alliance would come crumbling down about their ears and it would all be for naught. The dead would come for them and find no fight only a legion of bodies. One of the Brothers had raped a spearwife. Her sister had killed him for it two days later as the man waited in an ice cell for his punishment—so though the Watch had nothing against their comrade’s death they objected fiercely to letting the wildling women get to him first. Edd had just been glad he’d not had to do as Jon had, executing someone who not everyone disagreed with. 

It was one thing to dispense the proper justice according to their laws and traditions, being frantically written down by a barely-recovered Alliser Thorne sitting next to a bed-ridden Maester Aemon, it was quite another to allow that justice to be farmed out. 

Then there were the wildlings who did not deflect the accusations of murder before fair trial. If anything they stood up for their actions, with the bloody cursed Tormund Giantsbane saying that the laws of the First Men had applied equally to those above and below the Wall and that those laws were what the traditions of the Watch had been based upon. It had given Edd a good lot to think on and he’d taken it upon himself to give himself the space desired for time alone. 

Jon, being the son of a great lord, would play at his high bastardy and retreat to Lord Commander Mormont’s solar. There he’d stare endlessly at the pages of reports sent to him by the Brothers who, with great numbers of wildlings, now manned four more castles upon the Wall. Edd was no such man to be so grand, though he did not begrudge Jon his habits. If he was a bastard, and father to so many more Bastards of the Watch, let him act it. Edd was a Tollett, just another hapless idiot not born with the luck of having only one name while the second name he DID have was just enough to bring him woe. 

So Edd went out into the snow and started work on one of the latrines. It was a thankless job but involved far less shit than staying in the Lord Commander’s solar where any idiot might barge in and distract him. In his mind he tried to think of the wildlings and Brothers as bastards and trueborn—the wildlings wanted the same things in life as the men of the Watch. Safety, to be left alone by the needling laws of lesser or greater men. They ought to be natural fellows, but there were so many old men in the Watch. So many young ones had died, and not enough elders lived amongst the wildlings to make things much better. 

It came down perhaps, he thought as he shoved away, that the Brothers were the stern fathers to their bastard sons. He’d seen it happen often with the small petty families of the Vale—a mother having no sons and having to adopt her husband’s bastard, hating the man at every turn for every difference. It was usually best solved with a solid crack across the face of both parties involved but the situation was explosive enough now that he dare not do something like that. Besides, the offending Brother was already dead and so the debate need not center on him. 

The day passed quickly into afternoon as Edd worked and by the end of everything he’d come up with a solution. Now he just needed to make sure no one stabbed him when he spoke it.

* * *

 

Jon had gotten directions from a merchant to a bit of shelter in the middle of nowhere in the Dornish Marches. The mountains were higher and much more severe than he’d expected to see. Somehow the gentle lands, however ravaged by war they were, that he’d passed through had led him to think that Dorne would somehow be a continuation of that. These peaks were sharp against the sky, angry and red despite the steely skies above them, stubborn against the rains of Winter and the fierce winds of Summer. 

The name the merchant had told him was a bit of a shock—Starktear, what had once been the Tower of Joy, where his own father had fought three men of the Kingsguard to rescue his aunt Lyanna, unknowing that those men had already murdered the woman. There had once been a tower here, a proud relic of the Dornish-Targaryen wars of centuries past. Dorne had never been taken and kept by force, only deigning to join the Seven Kingdoms and take away Aegon the Conqueror’s lie. 

A single elderly man was all Jon found as he rode slowly up the ridgeline, drawn like a moth to the flames there. The man gibbered on in a foreign tongue, pointing to a small overhang near the crest of the ridge where Jon could lay his bedroll for the night next to the old man’s. After so many nights curled up between his horse, Ghost, and Nymeria Jon was a stranger to sleeping alone or cold but he could afford a bit of kindness to the sole guard over this burial ground. 

“You before,” the man said, hours later as Jon banked their small fire. Nymeria and Ghost had gone hunting rabbits and brought a fat one back to them. Jon paused a long moment before speaking, remembering Ygritte’s accent and the strange ways she decided to word things in Andaii. It took little effort to listen, and no one had any weapons trained on him. 

“I have never been to Dorne,” he eventually replied, “I have never been out of the North. My father was Eddard Stark.”

“Stark, you before.” There was a happy gleam to the man’s wrinkled smile now and Jon flashed a returning one to him. 

“Yes,” he said, knowing that if his companion knew more words of Andaii he would speak them in his own time. The wind rose up around them, a howling coming through the canyons below them, and the little old man mumbled a little before drawing his cloak tighter around his shoulders. Sam had told Jon that Dorne was as different from the rest of Westeros as the High North was even from the North of the Seven Kingdoms and he couldn’t help but think that Sam was wrong. This place was so far a chunk of some fairy kingdom, one escaped from Old Nan’s alarming tales of the Age of Heroes. 

“Stark,” the elderly man said softly after Jon had bedded down not long after. He lifted his head up a little to see Ghost settling down next to the man, a shock of moonlight in the otherwise dark night. The man’s black eyes were watery but alert. 

“Yes?”

“Before.” Jon clenched his eyes shut for a moment but nodded once again to his companion, murmuring the word back to him in an agreeing tone. Sleep claimed him quickly and dreams were upon him soon after. First he dreamed of the Wall, how it wept on the few sunny days he’d seen while he’d been there, how it glowed eerie blue in the half-light of dawn and sunset. It had become home to him in a way, frozen and harsh as it was it had been no worse than Lady Catelyn’s harsh words and glares—as though he had asked Father to bring him to Winterfell to live under her roof. At least the Men of the Watch resented his presence for the very real fact that he’d chosen his path over whatever favor Father might have bestowed on him. 

Stark. You before. 

He’d seen just a day or so of Dornish territory but already the harsh landscape etched itself in his mind—only now the mountains loomed over him, curved and wicked like daggers in the night. They were red but the color whispered and moved, blood flowing down the ridgelines in torrents—and through everything a pathway of red bricks, blue rose petals swirling along it in the bloody streams and carried also on the howling, screaming wind. 

Rocks fell and buried him, the weight never relenting and Jon screamed with the last breath in him as they fell—cracking against each other like swords in battle until a delicate hand took his and they fell away, deferent. Jon knelt at feet slippered in silver silk and kissed the toes, never letting go of those delicate fingers. 

Stark. 

On his lips he tasted blood, in his whole mouth it stung him, and finally he glanced at the ankles visible above the slippers—white and small and bloodstains threaded their way down into the slippers, slippers that filled with black ichor as the howling wind built in force and sound and then a woman’s shrieking and screaming filled his ears. The hand in his turned from delicate to wraith-like and though his mind babbled against it his eyes were drawn up to the woman who held him, his heart thundering as her hand clenched around his fingers like a vise. 

Child. 

For a brief moment he looked on Arya but then her face turned soft and sad and he longed for his father at the sight. The longing was short-lived as her eyes, silver and white without even a pupil, seemed to focus on him. Her grip on his hand was bruising and biting now and the blue petals blowing around them shriveled—some bloody and others black, sticking to him hotly before sliding away in the wind. With incredible strength the woman pulled him to stand, shoving her other hand into his hair and bringing him close to her face. 

Her own face that was pulling and stretching, the teeth looking canine and sharp as her lips cracked and bled scarlet. Jon bucked and struggled trying to free himself as the screaming echoed around and around in his mind, swords clanging louder and louder, and then there were steps, boots ringing on stone stairs, and the world spun around the two of them as the now dessicated corpse seemed to sing a sad tune as it crackled and creaked into a sitting position, enveloping Jon tightly in its skeletal arms.

My boy, a woman’s voice slurred near his ear as blood started to rain down on them—near drowning him as the skeleton held him tightly. 

Jon woke up screaming, opening his eyes to stone walls and a proper bed beneath him. His Dornish friend sat at his side, a book in his hands. Tears falling from his eyes, Jon tried to get himself under control again, his breath coming in short gasps. Where was Ghost? Nymeria? What manner of prison had he been taken to?

“You would not wake,” the old man said, his voice accented but his words clear, “your wolves dragged you to us well after sunrise, hours after I departed. You were stirring then and I thought you nearly awake. I was wrong.”

“Where am I?” his voice wobbled still, the feeling of hot blood running over him still too fresh to forget. 

“Starktear. We guard our borders here as well as keep gawkers from lingering at the cairns. I—my name is Polle Manwoody, and we normally take sick travelers on to Kingsgrave but for being Lord Stark’s kin my son Steffon decided to nurse you here and not take you from your journey. You’ve been thrashing and yelling for the better part of a day” Jon was sitting up now, looking at the bite marks on his hand where one of the direwolves had probably bitten him, trying to startle him awake. 

“Why wouldn’t you speak to me in Andaii?” He got a warm smile for that, and Jon felt like a naive boy before that smile. 

“Because then you would ask questions. No one questions an illiterate hermit who doesn’t speak the language, they are only happy he has not rifled through their belongings looking for edible weevils. It also makes sure they only stay the night before going on.” 

Despite his body still trembling Jon gave a snort at that. 

“I suppose I am grateful.”

His companion ticked a smile towards him. 

“As well you should be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you like Oberyn/Sansa or Oberyn/Sansa/Ellaria I highly recommend reading some of the other fics in the tag as there are lots. There are probably four or five other big ones that are in progress and lots of beautiful one-shots by beautiful authors who write lovely things. 
> 
> Please let me know what you thought of this chapter, too, I love getting reviews and feedback!


	88. Shae, Gendry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, I'm so sorry for not updating! Everyone else seems to have made up for my absence, and I hope you've been enjoying their fics! 
> 
> This chapter is an update on some of the other little arcs, but we are heading towards some serious family time down in Dorne in coming chapters. I hope you enjoy!

Shae liked Queen Margaery’s brown hair. The girl was sweet, very smart, and reminded her a bit sometimes of Sansa. Both girls had rid themselves of Joffrey well enough, and Shae was glad of the Tyrell woman’s charity now that Lord Tywin was dead. He had been virile and able when she’d first met him, stern but kind in his way. They had had a wonderful arrangement—at least until he’d sent her to look over Tyrion’s life. How interesting the man and his son were. The same in their own blindness, their belief in their own legends. They had each had such golden hair, alive in the torchlight at night. 

Queen Margaery had very little blindness about herself, and she did not believe even those sworn to help her. Only her family. When Shae told her not to trust her, Queen Margaery had believed her. She was included in most of the Queen’s activities, but she was never the handmaiden on call for the meals the Queen had with the King. Tywin, when he’d been alive, had raged at her for it. He had put up with her absences provided they had a purpose—and she learned much less from King Tommen and Queen Maragery than she ever had learned while she played the handmaiden to Sansa and Tyrion. 

The people in Highgarden were scheming, to be sure Queen Margaery was the least of these schemers, but at least they were not cold. Shae had not minded too much bedding the father and the son of Lannister, but it had amused her how coldly Tywin had felt about the arrangement—it didn’t please him, but it did not displease him. Here in Highgarden there was passion and life, vibrant anger and love in equal turns. They had the time to live here, like they did in many of the Free Cities. When the time came for her to find a new place for herself, she might well choose the Reach for her new home. 

That was a way off, though, for she wanted to be sure the Realm was going to war or settling for peace—she needed to prepare properly, first off, and secondly she wanted to see how this trial of Cersei Lannister went. It could possibly decide many things.

* * *

 

King Tommen had come to Highgarden, his pretty Tyrell queen in tow, to aid in whatever manner he could the Faith’s investigations into his mother Lady Cersei. At least that was what he had been told, Gendry knew that the highborns liked to play pretty games with one another and the King could be visiting on some matter unrelated entirely. For the most part he tried to ignore it all, though as a blacksmith he found it hard to avoid them entirely. 

For one thing, the nobility rode their horses abominably—even the Tyrells with their love of horseflesh were not completely innocent of bad behaviors. The number of thrown shoes astounded him even after working for months in the smithy, though Wendyl commented knowingly that Tobho had preferred to do armoring more than he had horse healing. It was the one area that Gendry was lacking, what hadn’t allowed him to settle in any of the small towns he’d come across in his wanderings. They had no use for blacksmith who couldn’t see to their plow horses the same as he could their lordling’s gorget. 

The royal party brought a good number of the court with them, and as such his skills were in great demand—making little fine bits of gold or silverwork that the highborns turned around to gift one another for meaningless little bits of favor. Wendyl hated the fine detail work and was happy to pass it on to Gendry whose eyes didn’t tire so quickly after evening fell and they were reduced to torchlight. 

The Winter, such as it would be, was settling over HIghgarden finally. The air was refreshing and brisk, tangy with the scent of hot iron and horse sweat. It reminded him of the Fall that he’d spent traveling through the Vale and the Riverlands. Some of the courier riders, men who DID know how to ride a horse properly, said there was already a layer of snow a hand deep in the northern Riverlands and deeper still in the Vale. Times like that, listening to those men, Gendry wanted after a profession that took him such places. 

But ironworking, the sharpness of steel, was his place. No man wanted a blacksmith for a squire in these troubled days, so he would never become so famous as a knight from a song. Sometimes Gendry dreamed of a girl with dark hair near to black, her face pinched as he teased her. Arya, of the House Stark, so angry at him for letting himself be sold to the Red Woman. Heartbroken as he was trundled away in that wagon. 

He doubted, though Wendyl sometimes teased him, that she had settled down to have some rebel’s children. The other blacksmith couldn’t know that the ‘girl’ he spoke of was Arya, but he spent too much time thinking of her to keep his memories of her hidden—and based on those memories he knew that she was not the sort to go peacefully down her path. She would be what? Three and ten now? Four? Wild and fierce, no doubt. 

Amidst his dreaming and envy, the trial of Lady Cersei was a distant thing to him. Gendry saw far more of her as she was hustled around by septas and men-at-arms, and when she caught his attention his thoughts turned to Arya always. Lady Cersei had that same aloofness that Arya had tried to protect herself with, the self preservation evident with her every glance. He wondered sometimes if perhaps this woman, Cersei of the House Lannister, had been allowed to hold a sword or draw a bow she might have turned out differently. If she’d even be in this position. 

More to the point, would Arya have grown to be so upset, angry, and calculating had she been forced to become some lordling’s wife?Whatever Arya’s fate, he never wanted that for her. It would kill her more surely than any wound. 

At the behest of Wendyl, though, Gendry was drawn into some of the proceedings of the trial. The King had asked the Faith to try his mother in a trial by combat, for she had sinned against the Gods and it ought to be the Gods who decreed her guilt or innocence. The septon sent from Oldtown had apparently agreed, and a month was given to the lady in question to have her champion arrive for her. Many speculated that it was a Lannister man from Casterly Rock, others thought perhaps the Lady’s twin brother Jaime Lannister—but no matter who it was, Gendry and Wendyl worked hard to prepare the weapons for the bout. Swords of broad Northron style, short and slim Dornish blades, long Westerlander swords, a pair of battle axes in the fashion that Valemen were wont to carry into battle. 

Should Lady Cersei’s champion fail her she would be sent to spend three years among the silent sisters to teach her humility and chastity among other virtues. If her champion won, she would be packed off to Casterly Rock soon after the fight. Queen Margaery, one of the stable boys told Gendry one particularly chilly morning, had asked that her goodmother be delivered into her care but the King had deemed his mother in need of her kin and asked for the Rock. 

Because he and Wendyl had crafted the weapons for the bout they stood near the racks displaying the choices on the day of the match. Near Wendyl stood a huge man wearing a sigil of a green apple on a yellow field, but none walked forward to stand next to Gendry. There was a good deal of whispering about this, and people pointed down at him—or rather, the empty space next to him, as they waited for midday to be announced. From where he stood he could see Lady Cersei, dressed in what for her probably amounted to a simple gown of black and yellow with a stag rearing up over her belly. 

The septon from Old Town surveyed the grounds silently once midday was announced by one of the Tyrell squires. The spectators, mostly highborns and merchants, fidgeted and shifted on their feet as the old man remained quiet. 

“Lady Cersei do you have a champion present today?” The lady’s face contorted, a tiny moment before she smoothed it away. Her pain did not belong to anyone but her, it seemed, and Gendry felt keenly that this woman was who Arya would have grown into had she embraced being a delicate lady in the least. 

“Lady Cersei, your champion is he among us?”

A sparkle—a liquid diamond—fell from the lady’s eye and down her cheek to shatter on her dress. Gendry didn’t dare call it a tear, and from her stiffness Lady Cersei was more enraged and betrayed than she was sad or afraid. 

The septon’s voice was gentle as he continued. 

“If no champion is presented I must—”

“I am the lady’s champion,” Gendry suddenly shouted, staring at the ground six feet in front of him and not up at the stands. He grabbed the only weapon he knew with certainty he might possibly wield successfully against a knight. A hammer, huge in proportions and a thing he’d made out of vanity to his own strength. It felt good in his hand. The crowds had gone silent at his shout, frozen as he then walked to the center of the arena.

With an awkward bow to the assembled highborns he resisted fidgeting in nervousness. 

“And who stands for Lady Cersei?”

“Uhm,” he cleared his throat for suddenly it seemed there was a frog in it, “Gendry, your lordship—your worship—milord,” he said, managing to make his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. Not that anyone was making any noise that might cover up his idiocy. Lady Cersei, he saw better now that he was closer that her eyes were not even red from weeping, was white as a sheet as he walked forward. 

“Gendry of—?”

“Gendry. Just Gendry, milord,” he said, hoping he’d not be laughed at. Highborns were like to punish one another sometimes than accept the help of the smallfolk, even in situations when help was needed. 

“Do you come to this contest of your own pure will?” He glanced at Lady Cersei and knew that no one else in probably the realm would stand for her today even if they were here to do so. She was not the sort of woman that inspired pity no matter what had happened to her. 

“Unless I’ve been witched—and I think you would have seen them do it—yes, I do, milord.”

The septon gave him a slight smile before explaining the rules—it was a bout to third blood or when one man yielded. There were murmurs and some laughter as Gendry and his opponent, a Ser Jon Fossaway of New Barrel, accepted the terms and began to circle one another. Gendry knew that the sword would more quickly show the Gods his blood than his hammer would show the knight’s. There was, he readily admitted to himself with a grimace, the factor of armor. But—

His opponent had little interest in granting him the time to form a plan and the crowd roared as the knight took a massive swing at him and Gendry dodged away barely in time to avoid the blow. He took a deep breath and decided that it would be in his best interest to knock the man down and force the issue—so he charged at him, a bellowing war cry announcing his intention as he barreled forwards. There was no time to dodge the hacking cut the knight gave his side but the sudden pain and wash of blood only made Gendry more angry. 

What would they have done to Lady Cersei had her champion truly never appeared, he wondered as he took a few quick breaths to calm himself as he circled the knight one more. Would they have made her fight? Would they have laughed as this knight cut and sliced at her, her blood spilled for their sport? Gendry was certainly not the first in line to say he liked her or any other highborns, but there were limits. 

“Do you yield?” the knight called as their circles grew tighter, and the jeer in his tone was easily heard. The assembled crowd chortled and hooted, and Gendry’s blood burned in his veins as he listened to it. They were thrilled to watch a commoner stand higher than his station and be beaten back down, especially when they were able to punish a Lannister by the same strokes. 

“I do not,” he said as he took a risky step forward, winding his arm back and bringing his war hammer down on the knight’s pauldron, smashing the steel inwards and crushing it against the man’s shoulder. It was the wrong shoulder to disarm the man, but at least it put him in pain to match Gendry’s own. The spectators sucked in a deep breath, almost as one, as he sprang away from his opponent. If he’d been Arya he would have asked then if the knight yielded, if only to make the man angry enough to be prideful. Instead he wiped the sweat from his brow and resisted holding his hand against the wound on his side. 

“The bout stands at a tie,” the septon said, his voice a thousand leagues away from Gendry’s mind as he watched the knight regain his footing. Ser Jon Fossaway was older than him, probably in his thirties or forties, but that only meant he had fought many battles and had won them. The Faith would not have chosen an idiot like Gendry for their champion. 

“I’m not an idiot,” he mumbled to himself, forcing his breath to come normally through a rising anger that shook him where he stood. No one heard him, but the words helped as he once more advanced on his opponent. They were both smarting from the blows dealt, and Gendry knew that after likely ruining the man’s shoulder the knight would be out to cripple him in turn. He was not some highborn, with tithed peasant’s food to eat and peasant’s taxed coppers to spend on a healer—

People were yelling—jeers or cheers, he couldn’t truly tell the difference—as he and Ser Fossaway faced off, circling close. His grip on the hammer was the only thing he was sure of. He wasn’t like Arya, who had her brothers to look at and ape as she trained. Gendry had only himself, and the hammer. Tobho had taught him how to use a hammer, but everyone knew the stories of how King Robert had caved in Prince Rhaegar’s chest at the Ruby Ford. He could win this—he just had to be smart about it. 

The knight charged him, swinging the sword down in a huge arc towards his legs and Gendry yelped as he brought the hammer down on the sword and broke it in two. It shattered, the sound painful to him because it reminded him of poorly formed swords breaking in the tempering water at the smithy in King’s Landing on the Street of Steel. The other man dropped the sword, stumbling backwards away from Gendry. 

He was tempted to ask if the man yielded, but already Wendyl was handing a sword to Ser Fossaway’s squire. The lad ran quickly to his master, giving over the sword and scurrying back to stand next to the Highgarden smith. Gendry didn’t look at Wendyl, knowing that he’d see the sad judgment in the man’s eyes that he’d done something stupid. He would have to see it anyway, when he lost, and so Gendry shook himself and squared his shoulders. 

Running hadn’t worked well before, but it would have to work now—he didn’t have the stamina to whittle down a trained knight, not when he was still losing blood from his first wound and not when he didn’t have armor to help bear the blows. He didn’t hold the hammer above his head this time, instead hitching his hand closer to the head as he charged across the grounds with a yell that quieted the crowds as he leapt in the air and spun—the hammer made Ser Fossaway’s good pauldron sing like a bell, the man beneath the hammer screaming out in pain as the metal bit into his flesh. 

“I yield, I yield,” the man panted, sobs barely contained—his voice wavered in that uncertain place that Gendry had heard many times in the years since he’d left King’s Landing. He didn’t know if Gendry had enough honor to listen, he didn’t know if he wanted Gendry to have that honor in him. What a broken world they lived in, he thought as he dropped his hammer and nodded. 

“I accept,” he said, panting out a few breaths before his vision got fuzzy and he felt his knees go out from under him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! Thank you for reading!


	89. Arianne, Brynden, Oberyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhh I'm sorry I didn't update. The holidays were kind of hard on me in terms of writing--as in, I was only barely able to. What you saw produced was the only stuff I was able to write. At all. Even a little bit. 
> 
> But now I'm maybe back--and this chapter centers on family stuff because reasons. Yes.

Arianne sat in her solar revising her household expenses, taking into account that her husband was quite stubborn about keeping his sellsword near him. It amused her a little that he was so attached to the man Bronn when the sellsword himself had made it quite clear that he worked for money and, when surrounded by an entire castle’s worth of Martell guards, that Lannister money didn’t mean very much to him right now. She appreciated his dedication to his craft, he reminded her a little of the Daynes—people who to the very barest child were honest about their strengths and loyalties. 

She also liked the satisfaction he had with the family he had cobbled together, the flick of warmth to his face when Lollys hummed half-melodies as she paced through Tyrion’s solar with the infant in her arms. Someday, Arianne promised herself, she would have a similar family for herself. 

Today she was in the solar that was officially the one she shared with Tyrion as husband and wife—a room that was effectively Tyrion’s, for she kept her sensitive information and documents in private chambers of her own that her husband was explicitly denied access of. It seemed to improve her husband’s moods when she chose to spend time with him, and it was for the best that she make her budgets with his input. 

“My lady, I thought to discuss something delicate with you,” Tyrion said, interrupting her thoughts as he sat across from her at her desk. He was quite insistent, earnest and falsely polite to her, that she give him her attention. Likely he also thought himself entitled to her affectionate gestures. 

“Milord you’d do better to just ask her how much she’ll—” Bronn started to say, looking up at them across the room where he sat peeling an orange. Tyrion shushed him with a gesture before turning his face to Arianne once more. She set her quill down and gave him her attention but made no move to send any of their guards or servants out of the room. 

“You would be surprised how much is permissible conversation here in Dorne, please continue,” she finally said when he kept giving her what he probably thought was a communicative look. Arianne rather hoped that someday she could be rid of this husband of hers—and wished that Queen Daenerys’ ships had arrived sooner than they had, because then she might have been able to choose his execution rather than marrying him to keep his mouth muzzled. 

Tyrion gave her a look that said she had asked for his candor and Arianne resisted giving him a mocking smile in return. 

“I only wondered when you would return to our chambers tonight.”

Arianne blinked a few times as she took time to fully understand his boldness. His misguided hopes. She couldn’t keep the amusement from her face then, barely keeping her tone mild and sweet as she replied to him. 

“I do not plan on returning to these chambers after I have assessed our personal household’s needs for the Lord Treasurer’s needs. Is there something that you don’t have here now that I will need to retrieve later, should you have found it then?”

Her Lannister husband blushed bright red and stuttered for a few moments before finding his balance.

“You must have an heir.” 

“And someday I shall have one—is this related at all to what we were talking of?”

Tyrion’s face tightened with anger for a lightning fast moment. She admired how fast he regained his self-control in the face of such open baiting. Lord Tywin had certainly lost the best of his sons in this his youngest. Bronn was, far across the room, chuckling to himself and setting his adopted son into the arms of the wet nurse and standing up. 

“We are man and wife,” Tyrion insisted.

“Husband and wife,” Arianne corrected instantly, picking up her quill once more and dipping it in her inkwell once more. She had not yet finished budgeting for Tyrion’s guards and it needed to be done first if she wanted to escape to her own chambers to finish the sums and accounting. 

“You are my wife, I am entitled to certain rights—you must—”

Her husband’s raised voice had two of her guards coming inside and setting themselves up at the doorway, watching impassively as Arianne took a deep breath as she set the quill down a second time. She prayed her own heir, whenever it was born, had better luck than its mother and grandfather in marriage for she and Doran had certainly not been meant for marital bliss. 

“I am a Princess of Dorne, the daughter of the Ruling Prince. The blood of the Rhoynar runs as thickly in my veins as that of Old Valyria. I will not be told I must do something. Everything I do is at my pleasure and my own wisdom. It is my pleasure to pay for a running stipend at every pillow or sighing house or brothel for your needs. It is my pleasure to allow you your own chosen guards and companions. It is my pleasure to give you chambers of your own rather than a cell in the Spear Tower or on Ghaston Gray.” She did not stand, she was better than using height against her husband or any man. 

Tyrion swallowed thickly but his expression did not change. 

“You are the prince-consort to the woman who will someday rule Dorne, but that does not give you rights to me or any woman you haven’t paid for her time. If you dislike this arrangement you may always petition the Prince of Dorne for his judgment on the matter.” He stared at her in furious silence, his breaths coming unevenly for a long few minutes while Arianne turned for the second time back to her work. 

“You will need a legitimate heir someday,” Tyrion’s words were bitter and acid and Arianne didn’t look up at him at first because that would be giving such venom more than its due, “and as you yourself said my lady there are few men of my coloring here in the Essdorne that would keep their mouths shut in the event a princess bedded them.” So this is what young Sansa had had to deal with in a husband—Arianne well understood now why she had gone along with Uncle Oberyn’s plan, at least when this was the alternative. 

“And you think to rape your child into me? That I would meekly allow it? That my people would allow it? You think I am too much that I am a woman given to silliness and folly, husband, in thinking that I did not understand you at your first meaning. Let me speak it plainly—you will never bed me again. Now—content yourself with the material comfort which I will provide you here in Dorne or join the Night’s Watch. I do not care either way.”

* * *

 

Brynden spent many of his hours in the last few days with his nieces. Sansa was learning the dagger, slowly but steadily, from Daemon and otherwise retreating heavily into life with her children. It tore at her sister, he could see, but so far Arya had not expressed it verbally to anyone. He saw the looks she let slip onto her face though as she watched Sansa surrounded by babes and children, a direwolf puppy gamboling around them half-grown but entirely tame. It was not a child that Arya wanted but a sibling. 

Another Stark. 

He well understood wanting another family member close, he’d abandoned the Riverlands in the pursuit of making sure that Lysa did not go alone into her marriage. Of his brother’s daughters Cat had been best prepared to go out of her home to make her life as a lord’s wife. Lysa had lived with stars in her eyes up until shortly before her wedding—when Hoster had committed an act that Brynden had never forgiven him for, an act that had nearly killed the bright young woman. Lysa was flighty and girlish but in Brynden’s mind she had not deserved what Hoster had done to her. 

It was sad how that history had repeated itself in a way with the two Stark sisters. Brynden had never met Sansa before making his way down to Dorne, only knew that she shared the Tully look with her mother and aunt and himself, but he knew in his bones that she had been happy and starry eyed before leaving Winterfell. Whoever that Sansa had been she was dead, never to return, and in her place was this woman Sansa Martell who had fashioned herself out of broken pieces and the loving care of those around her.

She didn’t care for her duty as a Stark any longer, that name having brought her great suffering. In this she differed from Arya who was bursting with tales about the Starks. Arya who looked like a Stark and was as solemn-faced as a Stark and had shut herself away for two days when young Rickon—Konnick—had so emphatically renounced his ancestry. 

The entire idea of it alarmed Arya, and ever since Brynden had been trying to come up with an explanation she might understand. It was difficult, because it had been twenty years since his own break with Hoster and even at his brother’s deathbed he’d not found the words. Duty to family was everything but there was also goodness and love to be thought of. That was the crux of the matter, it seemed, and the marriage of the three was where Brynden had been a bit infected by the Dornish. 

Arya wanted Winterfell, that much was obvious, but she wanted her family too. She had spent the years since her father’s death believing, as her mother before her had believed, that when they were all together again the wounds would knit closed. Mother and daughter both refused to believe the idea that perhaps some wounds would never fully heal over and that not everyone was able to fight on after sustaining such a blow. It made them strong but also brittle. 

Sansa wanted peace and she wanted love. She wanted a home made warm with affection and care. Cat’s eldest daughter had built that by hand, brick by brick, and that home was strong enough to keep the storm’s wind out and the rain off. Winterfell lived in her heart and memories but there it would stay, and explaining that herself would probably ruin Arya’s attitude further. 

“Arya, where are you going?”

Sansa’s voice drew him out of his thoughts, looking towards the younger sister as she froze in the doorway. Arya had probably thought to sneak out while Sansa was distracted with fitting the wildling girl Gily with a new dress of her own—Gilly, Osha, and Rickon were all gesturing animatedly to one another, a silent conversation taking place over everyone’s heads. Brynden had let his own thoughts drift in a fit of boredom, but his youngest niece had taken her boredom and made movement of it. 

“I—I was going to go give apples to Clegane,” Arya stuttered in response to her sister. She stood, frozen like a deer, as everyone’s attention rounded on her after she spoke. Brynden sighed and stood up, waving away Sansa’s further questions. The dark haired girl was agitated and didn’t need someone seeking to open that barrel of sour wine. 

“I’ll help you. I’ve not seen the Hound since we captured him,” he said, striding confidently out the door. Arya gave him a gimlet eye as he passed but ultimately followed him, shutting the door firmly behind her as she went. 

“He’s not a hound,” Arya said, her tone petulant now that she was away from Sansa. Brynden chuckled and matched his pace to hers as they turned towards the path that would take them to the dungeons of Sunspear. 

“And I am not a trout but still people call me the Blackfish,” he replied easily, “we do not get to choose what the world calls us, only embrace it or let it break us day by day until we are called something different. Every Stark a wolf, every Tully a fish, every Arryn a falcon—at least until we put ourselves at a crossroad between our roots and our branches.”

He left it unsaid that he referred to Rickon and Sansa’s different rejections of their Stark heritage in comparison to Arya’s own views. His young companion said nothing in response, her frown deepening as they continued walking.

* * *

 

Oberyn was apprehensive. It was the best word he could come up with as he sat down next to his fourth child but the first he’d held. He’d named her Sarella, the sword of Elia, and been fiercely proud of everything she was as she grew. When she pushed against him he let her, when she demanded to learn the bow rather than the spear he had let her, when she demanded he give his blessing on her journey to Old Town to pose as a maester he couldn’t help but let her. 

He didn’t mourn her loss though, not when he had Alleras now. The boy was dedicated to his studies, not being tempted away from them by drink or fighting or boredom. A bit mysterious, his son was, but no less bright. No less loved. 

“I couldn’t write a letter telling you,” Alleras said now, walking with lazy confidence through one of the upper floors of the palace. He wore a well-fitted orange robe pilfered from Quentyn’s wardrobe no doubt, and his sigil necklace caught the light with golden sparks against his black skin. 

“I wouldn’t want to have you lose your position at the Citadel over just a letter,” Oberyn responded, waving the comment away. 

“Lady Yleyn offered to write something, I—I declined,” his son’s voice wavered but soon regained its strength, “I wanted to tell you in person.”

Oberyn smiled and nodded, clapping a hand over Alleras’ shoulders and hugging him briefly before letting him loose once more. Of all his children, Alleras was the most responsible, the most cautious when dealing with the rest of the family. He remembered the traveling, with Ellaria, across Westeros and even to Essos looking for Oberyn’s other bastards. Each new face attached to a child that was alone and afraid in the care of a stranger. Some were volatile, like Obara, others were confused and conflicted, like Nymeria, others were angry and prone to tantrums, like Tyene had been when they first found her. 

Alleras had had to bear the brunt of it in a way that Oberyn wouldn’t ever understand. It wasn’t as though his father had any bastards he’d gone around fetching, and he’d been his mother’s last child and didn’t know the strangeness of a new sibling. 

“And your wildling woman, you wanted to tell me of her in person as well?”

His son chuckled and hooked a thumb into his belt. 

“Gilly, and her son Aemon, are not wildlings Father, they are of the Free Folk,” Alleras said, a mocking tinge of Old Town accent creeping into his words. Oberyn laughed out loud then, startling a guard further on down the corridor. The old maesters in that wretched town and their haughtiness over anyone not from the Reach or the Crownlands—demanding people even speak the way they wanted, slowly purging every accent they could. If he recalled correctly, they hated Dornish accents the most of all. 

“She likes me, and Aemon calls me ‘Wass’ and I can’t bear to correct him,” his son continued, a bit of melancholy touching his tone. He wasn’t going to get a better opportunity to be a father, and it would probably only be the one child. It illustrated to Oberyn the depth of good he and Ellaria had done with raising their children—Alleras was eighteen soon, and had none of the uselessness in him that had consumed Oberyn at the same age. 

“I am glad for you, and I wish you the best my son.”

He and Alleras continued through the palace, quiet for a long few minutes as they descended a few staircases and going out to the stables. As they passed by the horses used by the retainers and knights Alleras opened his mouth a few times but shut it quickly. When they passed by Ellaria’s horse his son paused and stopped. 

“Lady Yleyn had a letter for me from Mother,” he said, not meeting Oberyn’s eyes but looking instead at the silvery coat of Ellaria’s favorite horse. The Qorgyles were Oberyn’s second family, and Lady Yleyn had been the one to teach Oberyn and Ellaria both how to be parents to the little brood of bastards they collected—it didn’t surprise him that Ellaria had written to his second mother about her decision. The Hellholt had always followed its own law, even before the coming of Nymeria and the Rhoynar, and despite Ellaria’s sweetness and bastardy she was an Uller before anything else. 

Of all of Oberyn’s children, Alleras had followed her example most. 

“I have other dreams, Father, than being the Lord of the Hellholt,” Alleras murmured, his voice so soft it was clear the words cost him something dear. Becoming a maester or a member of the Faith was the highest most bastards could expect to reach aside from becoming hedge knights or handmaidens. Only in Dorne was there ever a regular option of becoming a noble parent’s heir, and even then the trueborn were preferred over the bastards.

“Then you may keep them,” Oberyn replied, “only let me go with you when you tell your mother. You are her firstborn and she wants everything in the world for you even if such things are not what you yourself want.” His son’s smile was a flash of happy mischief then, a quick nod accompanying the agreement. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you like Martells?
> 
> Hells yes you like Martells, that's why you read this demon sized fic. Or something. Maybe. I don't know your life. But if you like Martells being Martells you should totes go read "A Wedding in Sunspear" by Julia_Martell. And leave all the comments and reviews, mmkay?
> 
> ....and Clinging to the Wild Things that Raised Us because those fics are fucking awesome. 
> 
> SIlby OUT!
> 
> ...Also please let me know what you thought of this chapter! It would mean a lot to me :D


	90. Dany, Doran, Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we are getting the gears moving now in this chapter a bit. We have Dany, Doran, and Sansa all having thoughts and feelers about it too!
> 
> Thank you for reading so far, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Dany felt rather like a child as she watched Doran read the letter of secession that she had penned with Obara Sand’s help. She was not beautifully skilled with such things, not the way that Arianne or Sansa were, but she had learned to rule. She had delivered ultimatums before, she had made war before. If anything she was more alike to Doran and his brother than she was the women who surrounded her here in Dorne. Obara had been a boon, warlike and aggressive but educated in the ways of Westeros in a way that Dany herself lacked. Rather than curse her lot in life for depriving her of such knowledge, Dany had embraced the help that Obara offered.

The terms she stated were in reality less a secession than a declaration of war on the continent of Westeros. It had been clear insurrection from a branch of House Targaryen—House Baratheon—against its parent, though that insurrection had been deemed just in her eyes. What was not just however was the subsequent usurpation of power from House Targaryen and flagrant bloodlust for the lives of the true heirs to the Iron Throne. She was here to seek justice for her niece and her nephew, her goodsister, her brother, and her mother. What had been done to King Aerys II was the self-same punishment she would have doled out to a member of her Khalasar and so she made sure to state she held no further grudge against her father’s end.

Talarro the Maegyr had given an estimate that his fleet could set up a blockade of King’s Landing within a month of setting sail, vehemently disputing with one of her own captains about the speed with which the Volantene navy could move. Dany ruled in the favor of her own people, knowing that she could keep her forces together rather than spread them out and apart. No sense having Talarro and the Volantenes arrive too soon and be destroyed by the Baratheons before the rest of the force followed for aid.

All this meant they had six weeks to land their forces in the Stormlands to act as a pincer on the capitol. Everyone around her reminded themselves that the city had never been taken save the use of duplicity, but Dany constantly reminded them that she was like the dragonlords of old and that very few defenders of any city wanted to see the stones melt beneath dragonfire.

Her Dornish compatriots did not say much when she spoke of such things, only a grim firming of their mouths, and she tried to refrain from bringing up the Targaryen wars against the Dornish. It would not due to step on their toes when they were the only ones who had extended a hand of aid to her.

“It is certainly direct,” Doran finally said after reading the letter once more, looking up at her as he let it slip from his gnarled hands. The wounds at his joints were inflamed today, weeping ugly pus, and she swallowed back her gag at the sight. He was a true Dornish leader, unbroken by his illness. She wanted deeply to be like him.

“But?”

“What mercy do you have in mind for the North, whose lord supported Robert Baratheon as king? What of the Reach, that ancient ally of the Targaryens that has climbed high once more from where they fell in support of your family? My family, with our checkered past and patches of alliances and scandals. My children have married a Targaryen, a Lannister, and a Baratheon, my brother a Stark.”

“I must spell out such mercies?”

“Your ancestor did not in his announcement of himself as King of Westeros, and the people fought him bitterly. He dealt harshly with the kingdoms, encountering resistance of some sort at every turn. His son attempted to solve the underlying disputes with further violence. You think to leave such work to your children?”

Dany thought of her dream. Her son, the perfect boy she had never held. She had meant for him to take up this mantle, one his father would pass to him, but neither had lived. They were not strong enough and burned up in the fire that was her life. Her newest allies had enough dragon’s blood to withstand the flames though.

“A ruler’s work is never done,” she settled on for her reply, “and a ruler who does not murder the lords they imprison who await fair trial is a mercy in itself.” A delicate kind of pity flitted across Doran’s face as she spoke.

“The singers already speak of the False Dragon and how you tested him. Some even claim you yourself had him fed to a dragon like Queen Rhaenyra was. Such rumors gain strength when shows of unrelenting force are shown.”

She looked out behind the old man at the city, framed by a mosaicked windowsill. Sunspear was shrouded in mist tonight, and it had rained lightly for most of the day and evening. This was a peaceful place, one she did not need to take by force. The part of her that longed for the house with the lemon tree dearly wished to abandon this quest, to rest and live in quietude among the Dornish. It was not to be however.

“The singers in Essos called me a whore and a bastard and a murderess. Westeros will know me by my rule, not by my conquest.”

At last her goodfather smiled and handed the parchment back to her.

“That is my only suggestion, that you assuage their fears with that sentence. It is far more concise than anything else you might say. Perhaps run it by Arianne, to see if she can say the same—I am curious to know.”

Dany gave him a bit of a smile, knowing that his tests never stopped for his daughter. He feared he wouldn’t be in good enough health when he passed on his title to her to aid her and wanted her as prepared as he was able to. It had to have been hard, waiting for a Targaryen restoration and educating his daughter for that world but also waiting with baited breath to see if a Targaryen—any Targaryen—ever made it to Westeros with a meaningful army behind them.

For a blip of a moment she felt badly for Aegon Dragonseed. It had fallen to her to comfort his foster father Jon Connington, a man who had deeply loved her brother Rhaegar. Ser Jon had been despondent, thinking she would have him killed for allowing one so mad to grow up and come to Westeros. Instead Dany had decided on a kind route for the aging knight. He had devoted his life to House Targaryen, it was not his fault he had been deceived. She told him of Mirri Maz Dur and how the witch had tricked her, and that she understood his pain perhaps better than most ever could.

He raised the wrong child up as Rhaegar’s ‘son,’ and Dany had insisted on the very poultice that poisoned her Sun and Stars. They had each paid for their mistake dearly, their beloved paying an even steeper price.

In turn for her forgiveness, Ser Jon had pledged his sword to her cause and she frowned now as she thought of him. He was not old and decrepit, but he was not in his best years—he was also not like Ser Jaime who had had time to make peace with his disfigurement and age. Her griffon thought himself the very man that Rhaegar had last known.

“Ser Connington begs I take him with the company to retake King’s Landing and the other kingdoms. I hesitate to use him, for he was dear to my brother and has served—albeit in error—House Targaryen dutifully his entire life.”

Her companion sighed, squinting his eyes before he looked up at her once more.

“It would be a tragedy to lose such a loyal subject to battle, but a greater one to leave him to his twilight years with no marked valor to show for it,” Doran’s face twisted in a parody of a smile then, “take it from one who knows the life of the latter, Your Grace.”

* * *

 

After Daenerys left his chambers Doran sucked in a great whoop of air and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. She had come to him, timid and standoffish, and he had had no other desire than to erase those things from her shoulders. He treated her much like he did Arianne, trying to lift her burdens while at the same time perhaps putting others accidentally onto her. It was his gift and his curse he supposed, this compassion mixed with this pragmatism.

For many years it was whispered in Dorne that he was a bit of a coward, slovenly, and not fit to be seen by his people. Thank the Gods for Oberyn who refused to hear a single word against him and had supported him staunchly throughout his adult life. It was interesting that the idea he wasn’t fit to be seen had slowly become true rather than rumor. His gout was becoming wholly unmanageable. Maester Myles had a rather alarming proposition where he planned to open the aggrieved flesh further and chip away at the crystals that grew at the joints. So far Maester Caleotte Had outright banned the younger maester from such an endeavor.

Oberyn, no maester by any measure but someone that Doran trusted above all things nonetheless, thought that Myles was getting ahead of himself in how his treatment might help in the longterm. If the crystal had already eaten the joint then there was little point in removing it only for bones to grind together, and there was no way to know if the joint was truly gone until the flesh was flayed open.

He was in so much pain, agony even, with flares of shrieking hot glass spiking into his hands and feet and one of his knees. It was getting to be too much to bear but he knew he owed his people his time a little longer. They needed him to be their leader until the war Daenerys was about to wage got off its feet. Once the soldiers were cheered away as they marched through Prince’s Pass or were loaded onto ships to land in the Stormlands and the northern Crownlands—then he might seek a kind of respite.

A useful respite, he thought wryly to himself as the pain retreated to more of a painful throb than the fire-lances that had overtaken him this morning, one that would benefit from his efforts of the past twenty years. Oberyn would not be around to provide his own counsel—not that his brother would like the plot that was soon to hatch—but Doran was fair sure that his plan was a good one.

Not that anyone else would think so, but that seemed to be a general theme with his plans. Doran made them as he needed them. This plan had seemed a natural way of revenge should the Targaryen children somehow expire in Essos. He had implicated Oberyn in it slightly, using his brother’s many trips to Essos as a means to collect the materials but also to attempt to keep in contact with Daenerys and her brother.

After the slaughter of their uncle’s men at the Trident he and Oberyn hadn’t dared—even Oberyn who had anger mixed equal parts with blood in his veins—to send much support to Essos for the last members of House Targaryen. If they were found out he dreaded what Robert Baratheon and Tywin Lannister would do to the Dornish. Even if his people defended their lands once more from invaders from the north it would come at terrible cost.

Instead he did his best to seal off his realm from the outsiders that had murdered his sister and almost driven his brother mad. He let Oberyn make just enough of a fuss that old Jon Arryn had come asking for peace, asking what would make Doran chain his ‘rabid dog’ and keep Westeros from plunging once more into war. The old man had thought that their agreement bought peace for a Baratheon dynasty but in reality it had only bought Doran and the Dornish time to conceal their actions.

Tywin thought them a pauper kingdom, selling their jewels to Essosi merchants who robbed them blind, riding their horses across extreme expanses of sand that contained no water to be found even if the deepest of wells were dug, letting their women whip them into submission and living like beaten dogs—and speaking a language that was little better than that of dogs in the minds of Reachers and Stormlanders. It burned Doran’s heart nearly as much as his gout burned his hands.

His actions would teach the rest of Westeros that the Dornish were not unwilling to bleed, and that they did not forget what was done to them as their own brand of fire poured forth. Doran knew, gingerly resting his hands down on his lap and taking shaking breaths in and out to manage the pain, that he couldn’t do it now but that it would be soon. It was a kind of cool, sweet relief to know it.

* * *

 

Sansa was quite sure she would never get used to the daggers that she was learning to use. Her strength was coming back as she practiced on a dummy that Daemon had arranged brought to her. Arya would often sit, idly petting at Sansa’s direwolf Katlasa, as they both watched her—her sister making comments about her stance or that an opponent wouldn’t give her time to recover between moves. It was nerve-wracking but Sansa held her tongue, because Arya wasn’t dead. Arya, who had struggled in this same way probably with her sewing and her history lessons, was there to support her. To make her feel like she wasn’t foolish for this.

Not that Oberyn or Ellaria made her feel foolish, rather the opposite. Oberyn was thrilled, clapping when he watched her go through moves that she’d mastered, and he didn’t mind at all the strange calluses that she had begun to develop in the last few weeks. She wanted to take refuge in his arms more than ever with each passing day, and often did when Daemon would call a close to their day as he did this evening. Tonight though she curled up with Ellaria.

It was raining, a hard and loud rain that was so alike to the kinds of rain that would fall in Winterfell that her heart was a bit sick with memory for a spell. Arya felt it worse though, grimacing and scowling as she curled up on her chair alone.

“It’s not like water dancing,” Arya mumbled as Oberyn and Daemon chatted softly as they put away their weapons. Sansa opened her eyes a little at her sister’s words, watching Oberyn as he perked up at them.

“I wouldn’t think so, but water dancing is a rewarding study itself,” he replied, his tone genial and happy. Sitting with Ellaria’s arms wrapped around her Sansa found no reason to think he should be acting elsewise—save his impending departure, which she knew she could no more stop than she could the seasons—as he dropped to the floor and sat crosslegged in the middle of the room where he could see everyone. His statement had a rare smile tugging at Arya’s lips.

“My father let me start learning it,” she said, seeming to brighten for a short moment before falling into a frown and looking away from Oberyn. Sansa ached for her sister, who looked at Oberyn a little like a father due to his age but couldn’t separate that fully from the fact that he was Sansa’s husband. That his lover was Sansa’s own as well. They sat in a lull of silence then, letting Arya have her moment.

“My teacher fought the Kingsguard with just a wooden training sword when they came for me. He—he was the reason I escaped.” And just like that Arya’s standoffish armor fell away and she started crying. Sansa extricated herself from Ellaria and went to her sister, wrapping her arms around her tightly and humming a little Northron tune into her sister’s ear. Arya who had found so many father figures, brother figures—losing all of them along the way. Just like Sansa had found new Florians, losing them or having them twist into something evil, attempts at bonding with other girls and women like a sister rebuffed for events Sansa herself had no control over.

Their innocence, something all children had, was stolen from them too soon and so few had ever tried to comfort them for it.

“Septa Mordane heard the shouting and the guards, she told me to run and bolt the door behind me. Joffrey had her beheaded, they put her next to Father,” Sansa said, the words the barest whisper and probably unheard by anyone else in the room. She rocked Arya back and forth until their tears subsided and laughed when Katlasa butted in to lick the tears from Arya’s cheeks.

“She likes you better than I,” Sansa said, pretending to pout as she spoke. Arya’s laugh was a bit thick with tears still but it was strong enough to be real humor.

“I feed her bacon rashers at breakfast and let her walk without a lead, of course she does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought! Thanks for reading!


	91. Arya, Brynden, Gilly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya makes her own plans, Angry Uncle Tully thinks about politics, and Gilly has a moment by herself with her little family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We don't have any Sansa or anyone else in this chapter, all of that is coming soon! I spent a day just recently writing down every thing that is going to happen from here to the end of the story. Chapter 92 is 70% done now, and I hope to finish it soon. We will maybe go back to how this story was being posted at the beginning, the updates coming fast and furious (like once a week at least, I hope!). 
> 
> Now the war is really getting close, and everyone is getting pointed towards where they're going to end up--I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Arya drifted around Sunspear, following Oberyn’s daughters on their outings. She was lonely. Everyone had taken Oberyn’s lead in regard to Rickon—her brother was no longer forced to dress like a little lord or behave at meals, and he spoke in rapid Wildling with Osha more and more every day. Sansa was distracted with her babies—the dreams that had been dashed in King’s Landing having bloomed in the warmth of Dorne—and while Arya knew in her bones that her sister did not mean to do it there were still times when she had to feed or change one of the infants and didn’t have her attention on Arya herself. So she followed the Sand Snakes around, a lost little puppy more often than she was a direwolf of Winterfell. 

The free people of Meereen were already moving through Dorne and Arya longed for that same movement—to at least be on a search for a home. Arya was glad of the rain as her eyes burned, hot tears mixing with cold drops from the sky. She knew that the losses of Father and Mother and Robb were worse for she would never set eyes on them again—after getting so close to them right at the end of their lives. Sansa and Rickon Stark were gone too, though, in their places strangers who looked on her kindly and were sweet to her but were no longer hers alone. It was probably selfish but she wanted someone to love her, be close to her, listen to her plans and help her act on them. 

With twin boys Sansa could not drop everything for Arya. 

Rickon was damaged beyond everything. 

Who knew if Jon or Bran were really alive. 

The Blackfish was loyal to Sansa, and he was not a young man anymore. 

Today Oberyn’s daughters had left her behind at a stall she’d lingered at too long—not on purpose, she had waved them on for she wanted to be alone. It was an easy walk to the bay, looking out at the waves as the rain fell steadily down on her. She mustered a weak smile at the thought that it showed how few people ever actually went to Dorne, given that no one had ever written of a Winter spent here. At least they kept their dungeons dry, and Clegane didn’t suffer awfully much despite his captivity. 

Sitting down Arya watched boats rowed out to the big ships, bearing food and weapons among other things, and scowled. Her mother had gotten her wish—Arya leashed and tethered here, crammed into a role she had no desire to fulfill. But she was of the North, and all of her childhood she’d been told how she took her face from that of her aunt Lyanna. Arya dashed away more of her tears and bit her lip, the boats out to the ships growing in importance as she made a decision. 

It was a matter of a week or two now that the armies of Queen Daenerys would leave for the Stormlands, just as in a few days the Volantene navy would set sail for the Crownlands. Arya stared hard, clenching her jaw as she stood up, and decided she would not be forced to fit into the mold that was so silently being crafted around her. When the army landing in the Stormlands put to sea Arya would not go meekly to the Water Gardens with her sister—she would instead be on the Sea of Dorne sailing northward. 

She would carve her path out with her own hands, and no one would dare prevent her at the task. Watching the sea, dark blue and angry today, Arya missed Gendry suddenly. She hoped that he was still alive, and that the world he’d seen so far was to his satisfaction. It was a big place, she was quite able to admit that, but having found Rickon and Sansa she hoped that she would see him again someday. That roguish twinkle to his dark blue eyes when he teased her, the stubborn set to his jaw, and his hands—no doubt the size of dinner plates by now if he’d kept growing at all after she’d last seen him—strong and sure. 

Mother was dead and gone, Father too, and even Sansa’s uptight ladylike behavior had slipped and relaxed under the care and attention that Prince Oberyn and Ellaria rained down on her. No one would judge her if she found him and took up with him and Arya was sure that her sister’s new family would understand if Arya never wed him. It broke her heart a little that his sweetness might likely be his downfall, that someone would take advantage of getting underneath his gruff demeanor. Gendry was someone who would be easy to use and Arya herself had tried so hard not to use him. 

All the better to go to the Stormlands, follow the army through Westeros. It would have to—have to—naturally throw her in with Gendry once more. It had thrown her in with him in the first place, and if she could run into Rickon of all people amidst all this war and death she would find Gendry too. She would find him and she would drag him to Winterfell.

* * *

 

Brynden sat on the council that the Queen held as they planned every step of their war. He was the most up-to-date commander in terms of the battlegrounds of Westeros, though Ser Barristan was also a competent general as well. They needed his insights while he could give them, for he would be staying in Dorne to preside over Prince Oberyn’s household guards. He wanted to go, of course, but he’d made an oath to Sansa to look after her and her children and he would not break it. Not after his piss break at Robb’s wedding had left Cat undefended and alone. Cat’s blue and bloated face was a frequent figure of his nightmares, the ugly gash of her throat making her words gutteral and hoarse as she begged for her children’s lives. 

She had died thinking all save Sansa were dead, and Brynden knew it was his duty as a Tully to ensure her children’s safety was guaranteed. In addition as embarrassing as it was to admit he had to do it. He had tactical brilliance in buckets but Queen Daenerys had a great many more able bodied fighters who were young and experienced. She also had Ser Barristan, Prince Oberyn, her sellswords, and the fiery Volantene princeling Talarro. They were just as educated as himself in war, and they were all—save Barristan—younger men. 

Watching the young Targaryen that the Martells had found and coaxed to Westeros, Brynden wondered for a moment if his nephew was yet living. It was rumored that he’d been put out to stud essentially with his little Frey wife—the goal being to get her with a son that was Tully in name but would be raised Frey in loyalty. A way to add just an ounce of legitimacy to what the Freys and the Lannisters had done to the Riverlands. Sansa had come close to being made to do such a thing—indeed in his heart of hearts, Brynden knew she’d come close to it even in her happy marriage to her Dornish prince, for the Martells wanted change but with accents of legitimacy and Sansa had the blood of Eddard Stark in her veins.

Part of his decision to stay wasn’t his own—Queen Daenerys looked at him a bit akin to a father, he saw it in her eyes and quiet moments spent near him—but other parts were private worries. In truth he’d thought to help Sansa return to the North when he made his way so far south but seeing her in Dorne and listening to her speak about the new members of her family had him deciding to stay near her side to back her up. The birth of a pair of sons slaked the Dornish desire for heirs the same as a pair of daughters would have. The Dornish valued their children equally. 

But sons stoked a fire in men’s bellies in the places where Brynden and Sansa were from. Sansa and Arya were to become the last living children of Eddard Stark. Sansa was the elder, and she had a pair of sons. What in the rest of Westeros would present a problem normally would become opportunity in a dozen years. The lords of the North—even Brynden himself—might comfortably ask her to give her second child up to take up a seat as the Lord Paramount, knowing that they ‘saved’ her husband the trouble of resolving feuds between twin boys. One inherited Dornish holdings, the other inherited Northron or Riverlander holdings. 

First and last, and everything in between, they were sons above all. 

With them there would be none of the troubling legality of naming a daughter as heir or choosing a groom from the right cadet house among many, something that Brynden was well familiar with on account of Edmure’s late birth into the Tully family. He and Hoster had searched through many books about how to properly invest Cat with a strong base of power as the Lord of the Riverlands, to keep the power centered in House Tully and not give it away to whoever became her husband. It was a difficult proposition outside of Dorne, and all in the household had greeted the birth of Edmure with deep relief. 

Brynden was quite sure that that same relief would flood through the Northron houses still loyal to House Stark when news of Oberyn and Brynden Martell’s birth reached them. Though they still made Sansa incandescently happy the excitement was burning away like morning fog for him as realities pressed closer—and he would keep those realities away from her for as long as she needed. She needed him more than Queen Daenerys did, and he would stay here in Dorne for her while her husband was away at war. 

Cat’s daughters wouldn’t have survived if they weren’t smart enough to, the times each of them might have been killed were countless, and Brynden knew that Sansa understood how people could scheme. How they would continue to do so, their plots revolving around children not yet even crawling. His nieces were probably more capable than they had any right to be at their age, but it was always good to have a second that would support decisions made and actions taken. Brynden knew his duty was to be that second, in the absence of Prince Oberyn and others.

* * *

 

Gilly liked it here—the heat had subsided dramatically, and the Dornish around her shivered and clutched old fur cloaks about themselves as they stoked their fires high. For her though it was warm and pleasant, sweltering compared to the snows she’d left behind in the North. This was paradise, she decided as she watched her son Aemon run on chubby legs across the little terrace that was just off Princess Sansa’s solar. The boy stumbled and fell and Gilly held her tongue as she watched him look at each of his limbs and then up at her. Seeing no rush of concern on her face he giggled and shakily got himself back up to continue running around. 

The Dornish were strange, to be sure, but here at the other end of the world she had found a place to fully begin the life she’d set out to find so many months ago. Osha and her adopted son didn’t speak the same first language as Gilly did, but they both spoke Andaii well enough—and then there was the signing, which was unobtrusive and an easy way to talk about the homes they’d all left behind in the North and the High North. Konnick would often nap in a pile of direwolves, as content as a fawn, and he let Aemon play with some of the pups while Gilly learned finer mending skills from Prince Oberyn’s bastard daughters. 

Ultimately though it was his bastard son that convinced Gilly to stay here among the incredibly strange Dornish—while Osha and Konnick eventually planned on leaving for a place called the Hellholt, Gilly knew that she had a place here with Alleras. The man was good to her and both he and his father had assured her that she would be welcome as long as she wished to stay. Gilly dearly wanted to stay, for where else might she find a lover who didn’t ask her relentless questions about the High North as well as one that didn’t have a cock he wanted to shove into her?

Alleras had been tense the day he’d told her, in her rooms alone while Aemon played somewhere with Konnick, and for the first time Gilly had wondered if he had been leading her on somehow—until she’d fully understood what he meant. He’d been born a bit wrong, he’d said, but it wasn’t something he couldn’t overcome so long as she didn’t require a live cock on his part. Thankfully he’d not decided to disrobe to prove his claims to her, but ever since that day he had slept next to her and held her close in his sleep. 

“Gillyflower,” Alleras said softly into her ear, gentle hands resting on her shoulders as he sat down behind her, his eyes on Aemon as he amused himself running the distance across the terrace and back—cackling with laughter when his legs took him too fast and he bounced back from the wall before turning around and repeating it all in the other direction. 

“Sneak,” she replied, leaning back on him. There were parts of her that wanted to ask him questions—to make him tell her everything, tell her every gory detail—but he had never asked how she came to have so many aunts who had children but no husbands, how she lived in a village full of women with no more than a single man at the center of it all, or how she occasionally mixed up sisters and aunts because they were all one and the same when she’d lived among them. Gilly understood that parts of their pasts were dead and best left behind. 

“Will both of you be fine here? Father will let you come to Oldtown with me and pay for your rooms if you decide otherwise,” he said, sliding his hands to wrap around her waist and pressing a lazy kiss to her neck. Gilly didn’t answer him right away, didn’t move save to settle against him better as she watched Aemon with lazy eyes. 

“I think so. It is a great deal nicer here than it was in the North—much warmer,” she teased, knowing that his face fell into a playful scowl nearly instantly. He was Dornish, he liked warmth—rain was not his favorite thing in the world, though apparently it was already beginning to snow more often in the Reach and soon he would be even colder day to day than he was now. 

“Regardless of your brazen wish to catch cold,” he sniffed, “the offer still stands. At least, once Queen Daenerys’ war has concluded the offer will stand. Until then I want you to be safe here with my family. My sister Obara has sworn to defend you with her life. Oh—well hello boy,” he finished, distracted as Aemon ran into the chaise Gilly sat on, letting out a giggled ‘oof’ as he did so. His little hands reached up for her and she picked him up only to have him trip across the cushion to wrap his chubby limbs around the Dornishman seated behind her.

“Fash,” Aemon said, “Ama, Fash.” Gilly gasped happily as he said the words she’d been trying to teach him for most of the morning came tumbling out all at the right time and to the right person. Alleras froze, for he well knew what ‘Ama’ meant and because of that it didn’t take much thought to figure out what the child meant by ‘Fash.’ Gilly couldn’t help but grin as Alleras carefully stood up and held Aemon close to his heart, and her lover took a shaking breath in as he pressed a kiss to the toddler’s head and whispered something in Dornish into the child’s ear. As with so many things between the two of them, Gilly didn’t need to ask what he’d said. 

“We will be here when you return,” she chose to say instead, biting her lip as Alleras drew her up and wrapped his free arm around her waist, blushing when he murmured ‘vrasaehat,’ as he did so. Obara had said that it meant ‘my beloved’ in Valyrian, but to the Dornish it meant ‘paramour,’ and that many saw it as a statement akin to the vows of marriage. 

“Makka, Fash,” Aemon repeated a few times, giggling as he pulled on a lock of her hair with one hand and clutched Alleras’ tunic tightly with the other—pulling on her and on Alleras to alternate the two words. She crinkled her nose at her son and dotted her fingertip to his nose so he would crinkle his nose back at her, the way that she and her sisters had smiled at one another when avoiding drawing Crastor’s attention. Alleras rested his chin on her head and she gladly let him hold them both close. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Let me know what you thought of this and what you think Arya is up to and how she's gonna go about it...!


	92. Gendry, Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry awakes in a place that is distinctly not one of the Seven Heavens, and Sansa sees Oberyn off on his journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, got a little stuck on Sansa's POV part. I hope that you enjoy this chapter!
> 
> And in the last chapter we had little Aemon saying "father" in both Dornish (Ama) and then "mother" as well in the language that Gilly speaks (Fash:father, makka: mother). Because of reasons.

Gendry was in a soft bed. That was the first thing he knew. He was in a soft bed. The second thing he knew was that he felt incredibly weak, and the third was that under the weakness he was in pain. It wasn’t so bad actually. It was a deal better than being in pain on a straw pallet or the ground. He had been terribly weak, weaker than he was now, when he’d finally made landfall after fleeing Dragonstone and the woman with her leeches. It wasn’t a new feeling, though it was admittedly unfamiliar to him since he’d made his way to the Reach. 

“He’s awake, my lady, he’s waking up,” a man’s voice said and then a soft hand was taking up his. Another, long fingered and cool, cupped his cheek and he dragged his eyes open to look up at who held him so tenderly. Gendry couldn’t help the flinch though that overtook him when he realized he was looking up into the face of Cersei Baratheon. 

“He’s confused, I imagine, take nothing by it,” the man’s voice sounded somewhere in the distant gloom of the room he was in, “he lost a deal of blood during the match.”

“You speak as though I didn’t witness it as well,” her voice was sour though her eyes were still soft and adoring as they looked over his face. Gendry twitched and tried to get up, to get away from her. It was bad to be in beds attended by strange women, he knew that better than most people. The lady next to him though shushed his movements and pushed him back into the pillows. She wasn’t wearing the dress from the trial by combat, so it was at least several hours if not days after he’d won the fight.

“I won, right?” Lady Cersei’s eyes watered and she pressed her mouth tight to her teeth as she nodded, threading her fingers gently through his hair. Gendry pressed himself back into the bed trying to avoid her fingers, alarmed at her emotional reaction to him. It was scary—she was scary. 

“You did, you won. Ser Fossaway credits the knights of Highgarden teaching you how to wield that hammer, but I know better my boy,” she whispered, leaning forward to press a long kiss to his forehead. Gendry froze and tried to keep very still. Some highborns took fanciful and stupid sigils but Gendry wasn’t an idiot. This woman’s father had had a song written of him of his bloody ways and she was no different. It had been her, or perhaps her evil son, who had ordered the deaths of all the king’s bastards in King’s Landing and it was because of her that he wasn’t comfortably living under Tobho’s affectionate neglect still. 

The maester bustled out of the room, murmuring that he would fetch King Tommen—who had wanted to know when Lady Baratheon’s defender awoke. It had Gendry’s heart stuttering a bit because it left him with the predatory Lannister woman. It was like being caged up with Arya when she was feeling murderous. Which had been often. She must have sensed his unease for she sat back down in the chair that was snug against the bedside, but she kept one of his hands trapped between her two. 

Part of him was glad that the highborns and the septons had accepted his win as valid, that they hadn’t sought further to demean her. Sometimes one had to go to extremes to survive, and while it had been the fault of the Crown that he had lost his choice position as a future armorer on the Street of Steel, Gendry could recognize that she really was more alike to Arya than probably either woman would ever care to admit let alone hear suggestion of. She was quiet now, just looking at his face as they let the silence settle around their shoulders. 

The room was well appointed, thick tapestries hung on the walls to keep the chill away from the occupants, and even thicker drapes were hung over the windows to keep the oncoming chill of Winter out of the chamber. This was what distinguished the highborns from the smallfolk, he decided, for even on Dragonstone they’d had such plentiful amounts of fabric. What mother had to worry if her babes would freeze in a room such as this? What mother had to worry about money when she might sell even just a pillow and feed a family for a fortnight? Their bellies were full, their chambers warm, and their beds soft. 

Even Arya had probably had a soft bed and pretty rugs hung on all the walls of Winterfell to keep her warm. 

“Milady you said that Ser Fossaway—is he alright?”

“Yes—he’s lost as a soldier, his shoulders are both ruined, but he will live. His Grace has seen to it that he is well-looked after.”

Gendry nodded, swallowing awkwardly and looking away from her bright green eyes. She was watching him like a hawk watched a hen and he didn’t like it. It was like she was calculating how many cuts of meat she could get off his bones for her dogs. Why hadn’t he just been left on his hard little bed above the south smithy with Wendyl to nurse him? Why was the king’s mother sitting at his side like a worried mother? None of it followed. 

“Is there water, milady?” he asked, desperate for her to take her eyes off him. She stared at him like she was a bit possessed. Where had that maester gone off to?! Lady Cersei stood up and swept across the room to pour a goblet almost to the brim with water, standing patiently as she waited for him to sit up a bit better before handing it to him. 

An authoritative knock sounded, startling him but not her, and a servant announced that the King and Queen were entering the room. Gendry gulped down the water and half-choked on it as King Tommen and Queen Margaery appeared, stopping first to each bestow a short embrace and peck on the cheek of Lady Cersei before King Tommen fixed his green eyes on Gendry himself. His Grace King Tommen Baratheon was a mere boy compared to Gendry who was nearing twenty, but there was a certain confidence that filled the slightly pudgy king up from his toes to the crown of golden waves on his head. 

“Gendry, I am glad you are making a recovery. My mother has been worried for her savior, as has my wife,” the king said, taking the seat that Lady Cersei had so lately vacated, “you were truly godsent, looking so much like my father. People thought you his ghost,” the younger man said with a short chuckle. 

“Or perhaps Gendry is a bastard of your late father, Your Grace?” Lady Cersei opined, though her eyes glittered with an angry heat as she said the words. It had a Gendry trying to conceal a shudder at what she might do to the last bastard of her husband and he hurried to correct her. 

“I think, milady, that my mother would have bragged more before her death that she had bedded a king and bore his son.” The smile that lit the Lannister woman’s face was unnerving but the king had latched onto the idea immediately. Gendry kept trying to gauge the reactions of the women as well as the king—these people had his fate in the balance while he was so weakened by the bout he’d survived. 

“That might be, but if you inherited half her humility she would have concealed it. We will never know, your mother and my father are both dead, so I cannot call you even my bastard brother. I can,” the king said with a happy flash of a grin, “call you Ser from this day forward. Her Grace Queen Margaery has suggested we dub you Ser Gendry Godsent, as we cannot name you a royal bastard.”

Gendry stared. 

They swanned in here and arranged themselves like a proper, pretty family and knighted him. For doing what was decent and good. If any other person in Westeros had offered the same to him, even if he was laying in a bed unable to stand, he would have laughed them off. But among these companions were the grandson and the daughter of the Lion of Lannister. Laughter was dangerous. 

The king’s smile flagged just a little as Gendry left him no answer, but there was a bit of kindness in his face still. It was a shock. Perhaps almost as much of a shock as watching your murderous—but kingly—brother claw his own throat out at a wedding. This king had firsthand experience with this kind of thing. 

“I—milor—Your Grace,” Gendry was stuttering and when he realized it he took a deep breath and made himself stop. It was a flowery enough name, something to help him fit into life here in the Reach, something to take with him around Westeros and be known by. It was a deal better than what Ser Jaime Lannister had been lumped with. What had him continuing to pause was the triumphant look on Lady Cersei’s face after her son’s decree. 

“You’ve scared him, my love, he thinks you japing at him,” Queen Margaery said, wobbling forward and putting her hand on the king’s shoulder while also reaching down to take Gendry’s. Her hands were even more lily soft than Lady Cersei’s, warmer, but somehow less familiar. Then again she probably hadn’t been holding his hand as he slept, something he was quite sure that Lady Cersei had been doing since he’d lost consciousness. 

The king started a little, as though realizing that he had dumped all of this information on Gendry with little preparation and that the man had only lately woken from a long sleep after his wounds. King Tommen would grow up handsome, Gendry decided, none of the bullish looks that Gendry himself had but only strong angles and a powerful jaw that would bloom with golden whiskers in a few years. 

“I assure you it is all true. I’ve written to my uncle Ser Kevan and he has given to you Clegane’s Keep in gratitude for what you’ve done for my mother. He will help you in finding a wife when you are ready for one, and you’ll serve as Lady Cersei’s sworn sword until she arrives home to Casterly Rock. It is not much but you saved my mother from a great deal of embarrassment and pain, you did something for her when,” the boy king’s voice hardened now, “her own twin abandoned her and when my own hands were tied.”

The king’s face was still hard when an out of breath servant pounded on the chamber door before bursting in without anyone giving him leave to enter. The man was pale as he held out a shaky hand towards the group of people at Gendry’s bedside, the parchment trembling so much it whispered on itself. 

“Your Grace, a letter from King’s Landing.”

* * *

Up and down the coast the boats were being loaded with soldiers, the supplies having been loaded slowly over the last few days. Sansa wondered if this was a bit how her mother had felt, watching the North and the Riverlands arm themselves to support Robb in his bid for the throne. So powerless but somehow at the center of it all nonetheless. 

She stood, arm in arm with Ellaria, waiting for Oberyn to finish bidding his brother and children goodbye. Sansa wanted to beg him to stay with them, she had lost too many people and though she knew Ellaria would stay with her she did not want to lose Oberyn as well. She couldn’t bear the thought of it—not when she’d been unable to find Arya before the official goodbyes. Osha had said something to the effect that Arya had woken up ‘in a mood’ but that she believed Arya was fine. Sansa couldn’t help but worry though—

“Sansa,” Oberyn’s voice startled her a bit, but she felt a bit lighter looking into his dark eyes. His hair was once again shorn close to his head as it had been when she’d first met him, the lazy curls gone by her hand the day before. Sansa had saved much of it, intending on weaving it into mementos for their family, and kissed away Ellaria’s tears at the idea that the dark locks—shot through with silver—might be the only things their three youngest might remember him by. 

They had to believe that he would come home to them, that the war would be that kind. It was no certain thing but it was helped by the wars that had already been fought—the Seven Kingdoms had drained themselves of blood and men, the few left hale were notorious turncoats or cravens. And, unlike any would-be conqueror of the Realm in well over a hundred years, they had dragons on their side. 

“Come home to us,” she heard Ellaria say over her shoulder as she hugged him, inhaling deeply at his shoulder—spices, iron shavings, heat. His self-deprecating laugh rumbled in his chest—“Have I ever failed to? This shall not be the war where the Gods take me.”—and Sansa felt her eyes burn with tears as he let her go so he might hold Ellaria. She prayed even now that Oberyn would come home. 

“We will look after them, Father,” Obara was saying, she and Oberyn’s other children coming to stand around them. Her husband made a short sound of acknowledgment before reaching one arm out to Sansa once again and she couldn’t keep herself from throwing he and Ellaria. The servants and others who still bustled around them easily made their way around the little knot they’d made in the courtyard. The skies, gray all day, rumbled and growled—rain starting to fall softly. 

“Pray we have a safe journey my darlings,” Oberyn said, kissing first Ellaria’s temple and then Sansa’s in turn, “I will send a raven at the first castle we can, and more should there be other news before we take the Capitol.” Then he let go of them and stepped back, surveying his daughters, his lovers, the maids that held the three youngest children, wild little Rickon and his pack of direwolves. Committing them to memory, it seemed. After that he turned away and walked resolutely to where a groom held his horse, Caerul, ready and waiting for him to ride down to the docks. 

Tears fell fast and free from her as she watched him urge his horse into movement, wishing she was a warlike woman such as Obara or even Arya and someone who would demand to go with him. But she couldn’t leave Ellaria, the mother of her daughter, and even if she was proficient with a weapon she knew that she would stay where her duty lay. The Lannisters had taken apart her entire family, she would not let the last gasps of their war take apart her new one. After he was gone she and the rest of the group headed back to her solar. The little ones were fussing to be fed, and now would be as good as ever to start on her little project. 

Sitting together as a family was something Sansa valued deeply despite Oberyn’s absence and as Tevira and Aelaenor served luncheon she tried to relax and revel in that feeling. 

“We will send Lady Arya out after him if he falls in battle,” Nym quipped, popping some late olives into her mouth, “she will tear out the Stranger’s throat for such daring.” There was some tension in her though. She was worried for her father. The reckless Red Viper was no immortal after all, and war was war. 

“Where is that girl by the way?” Ser Brynden asked from where he stood near the balcony, holding his namesake in his arms and rocking the babe to keep him from fussing. Sansa’s weak smile at Nym’s humor faded and her heart stuttered just a bit. Osha hadn’t said anything but that Arya was in a mood. If there was anything she remembered from when they’d been girls together, just a few short years ago, at Winterfell it was her sister’s moods. It was best to leave her to herself, but—

“Has anyone seen her?” her voice shook the smallest amount. She didn’t want for her sister to be alone and unhappy, such was the place of irrational decisions. There had been a time when Sansa herself had felt that way, she’d nearly flung herself from a high walkway over it once—though that had been different, she desperately counseled herself. 

“Well? Where is Osha—Ri—Konnick, where is our sister?” Sansa felt a wrinkle of doubt enter her heart but she pushed it away. She couldn’t—she wouldn’t—no. No. Without waiting for anyone to answer her, or even start searching for Arya, Sansa was up and running through the hallways of the palace. She grabbed a fistful of her skirts with one and trailed the other along the walls as she passed them to keep from falling as she dashed down stairs and stairs and finally burst out of the main doors of the palace. Her flight attempted to catch up with her as she heaved in a few breaths of air, trying to reason herself away from the conclusion she’d accidentally come upon. 

It was too cruel—it was the sort of thing that Arya would do though. Arya had not felt welcomed here in Dorne, she hadn’t felt she fitted despite all of Sansa’s efforts. There was no way into another person’s head, no good way at least. Sansa sobbed harshly and started off towards the stables, she might be able to catch them before Oberyn boarded his ship. It might delay them a day, but then her sister would be at her side—

“The wolf girl is gone,” Alleras’ voice called after her and Sansa’s steps slowed gradually to a stop, “and Father’s ship just raised up the speared sun to signal the raising of the anchors.” Sansa choked down another sob, sinking to the ground and wrapping her arms around herself. She hadn’t thought she would fail Arya again but here was the proof that she had. 

Alleras’ narrow hand came down gently on her shoulder as he squatted down next to her. Oberyn’s eldest son, as new and different as the rest of Dorne had once been, and a mysterious young man at that. He was about her age, perhaps a few months older. 

“She was a seed, long dormant, and the Dornish rain watered her until she bloomed. Just as it watered you. What was broken and breaking was healed and made stronger. Given purpose. To keep her here would be as though plucking a rose for its beauty.”

Sansa leaned against him, sniffling and quiet. 

“To keep her here would be to kill her and you. Is she not also of House Stark? Can she not take up the Young Wolf’s place in history? You will grow from staying here as much as she will grow for having left. I’ve seen it, Princess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Let me know what you thought, I miss hearing from all of you!


	93. Willas, Jon, Arya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this chapter! We have Willas, Arya, and Jon to hear from--and yes, Jon has finally reached Sunspear!

If the situation were perhaps a little less dire, Willas might have been amused at Margaery pacing about his room and ranting. His sister would have been happy as Oberyn’s wife he was sure, for they were both passionate and cunning and ever so focused on their goals. And mad, most assuredly they were both mad in their own ways. Since they’d heard of the bloodlust in the royal family everything in his sister had been driven towards the end of surviving her time in King’s Landing unscathed. She had declared in a letter to him that she would become neither Rhaella nor Sansa nor Cersei, that instead she would mold her husband into the kind of spouse a true Tyrell needed.

Of course if by ‘true Tyrell’ his dear sister meant ‘quarter Redwyne and half Hightower’ he was not going to speak on the matter to her. Her third husband, barely a man, vexed her now as he rebelled against her as he’d rebelled against his mother. The rumors that Robert Baratheon had no blood staked in his children might have gotten it wrong when it came to King Tommen, for the young king was proving obstinate after that blacksmith had saved Lady Cersei from her humiliation.

“I have no desire for this bull stag he is attempting to be. Like as not he will get us killed for this idiocy. Before we left King’s Landing he was agreeable to the idea of spending a few months among the a cloister of septons. Now with this blasted letter,” Margie growled in her sweetest voice, “he thinks to defend his realm. I thought I had a kitten, blue eyed with white fur and deaf to everything save affection.”

“Sister, you must be calm,” he started, breathing deeply at her frustrated gesturing in response, “and carry out your plans as before. You have a child in you, and there is no time to lose on changing your course. Cloister him as you meant to, return to King’s Landing with Loras as you meant to, marry the next man who will further the family as you meant to. You are a climbing rose with a good lattice, one broken slat should not hinder you after the others you have negotiated.”

She softened a little at that, a whimsical smile tugging her lips wide enough to show off her impish dimples. Indeed, in another life he would have liked to see her wed to Oberyn—what mayhem she would cause, her children even worse for having Dornish blood in them too. Grandmother and Father would never have considered such a match for her, and now that Oberyn had stolen—Margaery’s words, not his—Sansa away from Willas the option was no longer available. Still, he thought as he massaged his knee a bit, it was a pleasant daydream.

“Sometimes I wonder if you are my uncle, Willas, and not my brother. You have far too much of Grandmother in you sometimes,” she teased, kissing the tip of his nose before leaving him alone with his thoughts. Lady Cersei was packing up her household in preparation to go to Casterly Rock, the young bastard smith that the King had knighted was going with her as her sworn sword. No longer was she entitled to the honor of a Kingsguard, not when their ranks were so depleted and Margie herself was with child. No, she would have the bastard blacksmith with her until her uncle Ser Kevan located a proper Lannister man to look after her. 

Willas rubbed his short beard and chewed his lip, wondering if he could convince the young blacksmith to look after Margie once his current task was ended. She needed someone loyal, yes, but she also needed someone decisive and brave. It had certainly shocked all of them when Gendry-- _just Gendry, milord_ \--had taken up, of all things, a Stormlander hammer in defense of Lady Cersei. What had followed left old veterans of Robert's Rebellion white in the face, witnessing a ferocious strength and determination they thought dead in both name and blood. Even if Lord Stark and Lord Stannis' rumors were baseless slander it could not be said that King Tommen would ever physically dominate a room the way his father King Robert had. Gendry Godsent, as he was being called by the low and highborn alike, possessed the body of a Baratheon certainly.

There was an angularity to his face though that gave Willas pause. It was something he had seen but overlooked when having the smith fashion a fanciful piece of armor that he later gave to Loras. He now was of half a mind, as implausible and impossible as it was, that Gendry the Smith was no Baratheon bastard. He was fair sure that Gendry the Smith was, if anything, the trueborn eldest child of Robert and Cersei Baratheon. There was no proof of course but that was the way of all the best intrigues according to Margie and his grandmother. Even Father had seen his questions in his eyes this morning when they broke their fast together--old Lord Mace reaching across the table and laying a bracing hand on Willas' wrist, looking deep into his eyes and giving a silent shake of his head and a murmured word of warning. _The truth is not as important as peace is sometimes, my boy._

* * *

 If Jon hadn’t been quite so tired he would have had been able to marvel at the towers of Sunspear as they finally pierced the horizon. Whatever maesters had ever written about Dorne none of them had spent a Winter there. It was cold and gray, a constant drizzle falling from the sky that was colder and harder than a Summer rainstorm in the North. At least his hulking furs and tolerance for general misery suited him well. The direwolves were thrilled and happy to go hunting in the green scrub brush that surrounded the roads he took from that strange outpost called Starktear towards the eastern coast.

His nightmares had eased since his first true night in Dorne, but still the woman with silver eyes would haunt his sleep. He heard her wails in the wind sometimes even while he was awake. Jon had chanced on a way to make her leave him be, though he felt ridiculous—like a child clutching their swaddling blanket during a lightning storm—for if he touched or held the weirwood sapling the crying would slowly quiet. Perhaps whatever fate the little crone had laid on him cursed him for going so far south. Jon hated it, but he knew that soon he would be on a ship to King’s Landing and from there returning to the North.

Sunspear’s shadow city was bustling as he rode towards the Threefold Gate, and Jon took time to admire the world that his sister had been made part of. The world that his brothers at the Wall were fighting to preserve, in a way, where people haggled over fish and cloth and baubles. Jon had the faintest smile lighting his face by the time he reached the gate, dismounting and giving his name to one of the guards. There was still the city within the walls, and he would rather have an escort up to the palace.

This could be productive, he thought as a squire took the reigns of his horse and led the way up towards the palace. The mass of towers was as iconic as Maester Aemon had said it would be, the entire city looking untouched and unruffled by Robb’s war, and perhaps Prince Doran might be convinced to lend aid to the Wall. They needed food more than anything, and Jon knew he had no special sway in the Reach—Dorne however had his sister, a Northron girl who might have sympathy for the poor frozen bastards so far away.

The guards quickly welcomed him, though their welcome was a little stilted. The Dornish didn’t forgive a man’s sins the way that the vows of the Watch did. They knew better than most of the Realm that men like Jon and Jorah Mormont were fewer than the dungeon scum of King’s Landing and Riverrun. But he was the goodbrother of their beloved Prince Oberyn, and that appeared to be enough to secure him a quick audience with Prince Doran and the rest of the man’s family. He’d expected a large audience chamber of some sort, not the small solar that he was shown to instead. The direwolves, Ghost and Nymeria, padded behind him quietly and utterly at ease for some strange reason.

Jon was barely through the door though when a young woman’s arms were wrapped around his neck as she hugged him close—and he saw a flash of red hair as he cautiously returned the embrace, sinking into it after a moment. Sansa. His sister, the last family he had—Jon flinched and startled when his knees were crowded by a veritable pack of hounds, all licking and snuffling at him. Sansa let him go just enough to take a breath and look down to see more direwolves, and the little boy that herded them. His heart felt near ready to burst and the name was almost on his tongue before Sansa shook her head meaningfully and directed him to meet the other occupants of the room.

Rickon looked at him with bright blue Tully eyes, a hint of recognition in them but otherwise kept to the corner where Shaggy Dog curled up with another direwolf. There was something uneasy in Jon’s gut but he turned as Sansa bid him instead. Ghost and Nymeria would alert him if things behind him changed suddenly—though there wasn’t much that a man could do against an angry direwolf.

“Doran, Arianne, this is my brother, Jon Snow, the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch,” Sansa said, “Jon, my goodbrother and his daughter. Tyrion son of Tywin you already know, I think—” the rest of her introductions were lost on him as he locked eyes with Princess Arianne. Though he’d just come from the drizzle and rain, Jon felt he’d crossed an ocean of a desert just then from how dry his mouth was. Arianne was tanned past golden to bronze where Ygritte had been pale, her hair as black as night where Ygritte’s had been as red as fire—but there was something arresting about the Dornish princess just as there had been something to Ygritte. Thankfully, or perhaps not, only the woman in question seemed to notice his singular attention. Jon coughed and turned with a bit of force to Sansa and asked after the queer Dornish mulled wine he’d heard so much of and if he might sample some with her family.

Princess Arianne’s eyes left him then but Jon still felt burned by them.

* * *

Arya realized, as she watched her goodbrother vomiting over the railing, that she’d been on a great many more sea journeys than he had in recent months. First from the Vale to Braavos then to Lys and other cities and finally to Sunspear—and now she was bound towards the Stormlands with the forces under Oberyn’s command. From what she’d seen from her hiding places he was sick and sad. Of course, the despondency that the Dornishman exhibited might be based on the sudden departure and loss of Sansa and Ellaria and the twenty or thirty children they seemed to have between them.

Where he had once been swaggering and confident this man was taciturn and kept himself apart from the people on the rest of the ship. His crew left him alone, and Arya wondered if this was why he suddenly straightened and his hands twitched at his sides—she moved backwards to hide better but wasn’t quite quick enough to avoid his gaze falling on hers and holding her in place like a startled deer. Where was her damn wolf’s blood when she needed it?!

Strangely he wasn’t furious right away as she stood up from her hiding place, defeat sinking his shoulders down further than they had been in the last several days and he turned his face up to the rain that fell steadily on them as they sailed north towards the Stormlands. Arya felt an embarrassed blush crawl up her neck and she was reminded of the times when her father would be driven to the limit by her and Sansa’s behavior to one another. She would make him understand though, that she would rather fight for her pack than try to fit into it again—as well as the fact that with Rickon and Sansa each moving into new identities it increasingly felt like Arya was the last person who cared about being a Stark in both name and deeds.

“Did you at least tell her somehow?” Oberyn said as she shuffled towards where he stood at the railing of the ship. The heat on her neck spiked up to her ears. It would have been better if he’d exploded and started yelling at her, for then she could yell back at him that he’d stolen her pack from her by giving Sansa both the Martell name and his children and by letting Rickon abandon his house. Abandon her.

“Well we cannot very well turn around an army. What to do with you now, I wonder,” he sighed, one hand coming up to scrub his face, the other crossed over his chest in a closed off gesture. Arya scratched at an itch on her scalp, wishing she’d thought to have a nice bath before she ran away from the palace and down to the docks in the middle of the night. The past few days had left her feeling decidedly grubby, which normally wouldn’t bother her save for the fact that now she was caught and looked like an urchin. Not Arya of House Stark.

“I could cut my hair again, I could be your squi—”

“You could have stayed in Dorne where it is safe,” for the first time some anger tinged Oberyn’s voice as he interrupted her, “it will be a fortnight before we land in the Stormlands, who knows how many days or weeks before we take a castle that has ravens meant for Sunspear, and Sansa in the meantime will have lost her sister without a word. Do you know how much that pains a person, to lose a sister?” now her goodbrother’s dark eyes settled on her and she couldn’t tell through the steady drizzle of rain if he had tears in his eyes or not but the censure was certainly visible.

Arya’s own anger at the situation rose up as she bit out a reply.

“I made it to the Twins, right as they started murdering my mother and my brother. Then Clegane took me to the Eyrie but they threw us out as impostors looking for gold from Lady Arryn. We heard in Braavos that you had married Sansa, and taken her to Dorne, and when we arrived it was too late, much too late. She belongs to you now, I can’t have her back—I can’t have her back!” Now she was openly glad for the rain concealing what may or may not be going on with her own eyes, traitors that they were.

The anger was still in Oberyn’s eyes as she fell silent but soon enough those eyes turned back towards the sea. Arya worked hard to control her breathing to keep from actually breaking down to sobbing, and she kept her eyes trained on her sister’s husband. He was close to his fortieth year and she hated it. Sansa should have had a northman for her husband, someone like a Karstark, but instead she had a man who would be old before their children were even grown. Not only that, but Oberyn Martell had many enemies in this life—and Sansa did not deserve to inherit such problems. The heat of tears tried to overtake her again but Arya was practiced at defeating the urge to give in to that heat.

“I never meant to take you from her, only to take her from her abusers,” he said, crossing his arms and shifting to rest his weight on one foot, tapping the deck with the toes of his other foot, “I would say that it was because she is easy to love but that isn’t true, not these days. You did not see her in Joffrey’s court—imagine a she-wolf, thin from having to hunt alone, trapped in a maze with a pride of lions. One of them defends her, but wavers sometimes between that and wanting to devour her,” he scrubbed a hand through his short hair and took in a deep breath, “she thought I would beat her for her nightmares, she broke down to weeping when we were away from King’s Landing—our later revelries for having escaped that place only served to alarm her. When your bastard brother wrote her she was a mess, but so happy to have him living when she believed all others dead and gone. Forgive me, but I do not believe I have taken her away from you—rather I worry you shall take her away from me.”

Arya scoffed, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms tighter around herself—wishing again that she at least looked passably like someone he should afford the courtesy of this debate to. It was fine to argue with Gendry or Clegane while looking half-wild but her sister’s husband kept all of his wildness tucked away inside—not out for all to see. It was why he was dangerous. You couldn’t see into the head of a snake to know when it would strike or not.

“What do I have that would make her do that?”

“The North, your shared blood,” was his quick response, “any thoughts of getting vengeance on those who tore your family apart. Things that go deeper than a lover’s touch or a child’s smile—home and history sometimes prove the stronger.” With that he fell silent, clearing his throat and squinting out into the rain once more, his jaw clenched and tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, thank you for your patience and support! Please take a second to let me know what you thought, I love getting reviews and talking to you all!


	94. Jon, Gendry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (I'm not abandoning this story! I had...job-change-induced writer's block to the major eighth degree)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! For those of you just joining us: here is an update! I'm going to attempt to update more frequently, I've actually been feeling the creative juices for this story a lot more the last several weeks. I hope you enjoy this chapter, though it is short!
> 
> The chapter opens with Jon doing...well, doing Jon things. 
> 
> It ends with Gendry doing...well, doing Gendry things.

“I could take him with me, to the North, when I return,” Jon said quietly as he walked with Sansa in the predawn light to the courtyard where one of the Dornish lords was waiting for them to deliver Rickon. Their little brother was half asleep on Shaggy Dog’s back, his arms wrapped trustingly around the direwolf’s neck. Sansa had explained the whole story to him over the last few days—how Prince Oberyn’s gift of a single direwolf had turned into the gift of a pack complete with one of their own brothers; how Rickon had rejected his identity as a Stark; how Arya seemed to have stowed away on one of the ships bound for the Stormlands. 

 

He had nearly missed both Rickon and Arya, but at least he had this. Moreover if ‘Queen’ Daenerys Targaryen was hellbent on recovering her family’s throne she would need a Stark in Winterfell. Who better than the trueborn son of the last Lord of the North? Jon dearly wanted to say all these words to Sansa and her new family. 

 

“He will drive himself mad and live in his wolves if we make him go back. He will always be our father’s son,” Sansa replied, “but he was half a babe when King Robert came for Lord Stark. The only things he knows of that family are that they are scattered to the winds—lost or dying. If he chooses to remember himself we will welcome him, but for now it will do more harm to the North to give them a frightened and cornered wolf for a Lord Paramount than it will to allow Konnick Bloodlock to raise direwolves in the Hellholt.”

 

Jon allowed himself a brief but wry smile at the name that the woman Osha had bestowed upon her adopted son for it was indeed a name that a woman of the Free Folk might give a child with such a bloody past. He couldn’t help wanting to take Rickon away with him, he wanted some of his family close to prove they were even real at all. Sansa had the comfort of her new family, so though she might miss her Stark siblings she was not bereft as he himself was. The North was a cold and unforgiving place, the Wall much more so, but a piece of his past would warm and sustain him.

 

The Ullers would take good care of Rickon, though, according to Ellaria Sand. They were used to a touch of madness, she’d said the night before over supper, and did not fear such creatures as direwolves. A bit more bluster than Jon typically enjoyed, for he’d grown to understand that puffed up bravado served one even more poorly than silk slippers in snow, but Ellaria’s heart was in the right place. She’d mothered enough children that she did not let her own pride get in the way of the good of the youngling. 

 

The Hellholt was a place that welcomed bastards and was as harsh as the Wall with none of the vows. It was also impossibly far from the North. Anyone who wanted the children of Lord Stark dead would have a hard time finding Konnick Bloodlock buried so deeply in the sands of Dorne.

 

“Sansa—”

 

“He possessed a dragon and ate a man alive, Jon,” she interrupted, her voice firm, “and he is just a little boy. We must let him be who he’d like to be, not squeeze him into molds he isn’t suited for. If—if he wants to be our brother we will love him the same as if he’d never left.”

 

“But—”

 

“I know this is hard,” she said, the firmness of her voice fading into something pained, “but I would rather have him cosseted and spoiled in this fashion than have him locked away in a tower as a madman. Arya is with my husband and he would die before he let harm befall her, I know it. You will see her again, for she cannot be kept from the North.”

 

“You mean she won’t settle to have a family,” Jon replied, trying to keep the edge of bitterness from his tone, for it was plain to see that Sansa was likely going to stay in Dorne.

 

“Perhaps that, but I think much more that she means to make her way to Winterfell. Besides, no matter what choices Lord Stark made I was not going to live out my days in the North—just as Arya was never going to live out her days in the South.”

 

Their soft conversation came to an end as they watched the Uller bannermen gently press sweat-soaked cloths at the noses of Rickon’s wolves—giving them the scent to track over the day, should the creatures wander away from the band as it made its way west towards the Hellholt. Rickon woke up from his doze just enough to let one of the adults wrap a sandy pink scarf around his head to protect him from the rain and mud. He blinked sleepy blue eyes up at Sansa and Jon before ambling over to wrap his arms around Sansa’s legs. 

 

“Matke says you will be easy to find, like wolves are easy to find,” he mumbled, “but I—I don’t believe her.”

 

“We are wolves,” Jon chose to say, bending down to put one hand on his brother’s head and looking into the boy’s bright blue eyes, “and wolves in a pack always find each other. Osha is like you—of the North—and she would not lie about something as important as that.”

 

They waved goodbye to their little brother scant moments later. Jon stood rooted to the spot for a good long while, staring into the mist of rain that Rickon had disappeared into. Sansa and the others had made their way back inside nearly a half hour ago but Jon stayed. Paralyzed. His father had never told him how much it hurt to wave goodbye, how it was a living and vicious thing in his chest. How had Lord Eddard done it so often? Jon had only a vanishing glimmer of an idea, and this was a weight on his shoulders. As Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch he was responsible for waving goodbye to the men as they left ranging, for saying words over whatever corpses of theirs returned to Castle Black. This was another beast entirely.

 

The rain and wind reminded him of summer showers and drizzle from Winterfell and it was with a wry smile that he turned back towards the threefold gate, looking forward to some of the queer Dornish wine that his sister’s family all prepared with deft ease. He stopped short though as he nearly ran into Princess Arianne. The woman, for she was every inch a woman, stared up at him and reached a hand out to cup his cheek. Jon’s heart thundered as her hand trailed from his cheek to his neck and then down his chest. 

 

Her breasts stood high beneath her gown, fabric that was normally floating and diaphanous now wetly clinging to her every curve. The coolness of the light rain left her teats in hard points, and Jon tried to ignore how the sight of them had his guts twisting. She was married to the Imp, the cursed and witty son of House Lannister, he reminded himself as she moved to take his hand. 

 

“Come with me,” she murmured and Jon was helpless save to follow her. 

* * *

When Gendry had daydreamed that his life was some tragic song and that Lady Cersei Baratheon was his long-lost true mother he had not meant it so literally. The pain of the idea had been insulated by its implausibility, by the sheer madness of such thoughts. How would a Queen have smuggled the trueborn heir of the Seven Kingdoms out of the Red Keep to live in the squalor of Flea Bottom? What mother would condemn a child of hers, especially one slated for such greatness as the future king, to a life like the one he had led?

 

Now, though, the woman would take short walks with him through the gardens and she told him of how she had saved him. How she had made him as strong as his grandfather, the Old Lion of the Rock. It was like listening to someone insist on speaking in Braavosi or Lorathi, foreign and a bit upsetting to one who commanded only one tongue. Her nails were like claws in the skin of his arm. 

 

He might have been a prince, someone worthy of Arya Stark’s hand—to all the hells, someone who might have been betrothed to her the day she turned out looking like she did. 

 

Instead the woman who bore him had faked his death and left him in the arms of an innkeep’s daughter—and she seemed incapable of understanding how closely he guarded his thoughts and made little response to her claims. Lady Cersei whispered, feverish in her plight to make him understand, that he would not have been strong enough to survive life under his father’s thumb. That King Robert would have ruined him and killed his heart. That she had saved him when he’d been new and soft, too soft, and that only a true lion could have survived as King Robert’s child. 

 

If what she said was true though he had more than enough lion in him to have survived the king. He had survived Flea Bottom, and the Riverlands, and Harrenhal, and the Red Woman. He had bested a knight—trained and anointed with the seven oils—with only a hammer. Surely this woman would have had faith in him, innocent and small in her arms? 

 

“My brother ensured you were cared for, that you were healthy and hale. It was the scheming of Lord Arryn, that spiteful old man, that took you from me for true,” Lady Cersei said today, her hard nails busily snapping the thorns from a rose stem. Gendry looked at her from a distance of a few feet, trying to see past her brittle madness and understand why she’d done what she did. She’d been young when she wed the king, and she’d obviously been full of a daring that had been carefully nurtured in the years since then. 

 

“Lord Arryn was kind to me, and Lord Stark after him,” Gendry couldn’t resist saying, meeting Lady Cersei’s eyes squarely when she whipped her head up to glare at him. Her throat worked, swallowing words she would likely have shouted if they were not in the gardens of the Tyrells. Her silence spurred Gendry on.

 

“It was the castle that sent the goldcloaks out into the city, and Tobho gave five gold dragons to the man of the Night’s Watch that was passing by to take me away and hide me. My frame showed me to be of Baratheon-get, I’ve learned, and my face showed me to be the King’s own bastard. Perhaps even the eldest bastard of them all. Not something that those in the Red Keep wanted surviving.”

 

“You. Are. Not. A bastard,” she hissed through clenched teeth. 

 

Gendry shook his head, a wan grin taking his mouth before he could stop it, and knelt down in front of Lady Cersei. The woman who’d birthed him and rejected him. Left him to suffer and die. 

 

“There is no story that may be concocted to make me anything else, milady. A bastard’s lot would be a hard mantle to take up if I’d grown up a prince, but I’ve known nothing else,” he kissed her hands, looking up at her as he let her hand go, “please do not speak of my fate as anything but what His Grace King Tommen has decreed it to be.”

 

If he’d done as much to Arya she would have gutted him where he stood. 

 

He wasn’t entirely sure that Lady Cersei wouldn’t plot to do the same. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought! I would love to hear what you have to say!


	95. Ellaria, Dolorous Edd, Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh I had the worst writer's block this winter, I'm so sorry!! Here is a lovely new, a bit smutty, chapter for all your patience! Thank you to those who have been reading and reviewing even though I hadn't updated!

Life was only different in that Oberyn was gone from the palace at Sunspear and that he was not to be found journeying around Dorne on errands for Prince Doran or for his own wayward pursuits. He never left her for the wars of kings and it was not a feeling Ellaria was used to. She said prayers daily to the Goddess, thanking her for sending Sansa into her life. Without her she may have been listless and alone, grieving Oberyn’s absence and anxious about his survival without distraction. Instead she woke up warm, embraced and loved, with Sansa’s sleepy blue eyes meeting hers, her slender fingers threading into Ellaria’s hair to draw her into sweet, slow kisses. 

The Winter did not dim her lover’s spirits, only resulting in Sansa telling stories of her childhood home in the North. She had been born during a long Summer but had known snow and frigid weather for much of it. The rains of Dorne left Ellaria and her daughters grumpy and chilled, though Sansa wore only her usual shawls over her dresses. Her flippant nature about the cold ended where it came to Visenya who was still quite small for her age. The girl was swaddled in warm furs and thick linen and kept in their inner rooms with a fire going. 

“She will have to face the draughts someday,” Ellaria said softly, coming up and wrapping her arms around Sansa’s middle as she cuddled the infant. The girl was all Ellaria, from her mess of curls to her sharp little chin, and her strength amazed both Maesters Myles and Caleotte. Most babes born so early and so violently did not live and though Ellaria mourned her child had not been named for Sansa there was no arguing that Oberyn had chosen her name well. Visenya Targaryen had not yielded her life in Dorne and neither would Visenya Sand—instead she would fight. 

“Not yet,” Sansa murmured, leaning away from Ellaria’s arms to gently put the babe into the cradle once more, “she was born in Winter, there is time enough for her to learn its ways. But not yet.” Her blue eyes were a bit solemn as she turned to wrap herself closer to Ellaria, though her eyelids sank down with the warm kiss that Ellaria pressed to her temple. They left it unspoken, as they so often did, that they and their allies had gambled with more than their own lives with this venture. Babes not even weaned from their mother’s breast had been brought into the world only to possibly have their parents perish in war. At best they might grow up hardened and saddened, like Sansa and her half-brother Jon Snow, or they might grow up feral and wild as little Rickon Stark had. 

It would be many months before they truly knew their fates and those of whom they loved. 

Ellaria trailed her lips down to Sansa’s, holding the other woman close as she kissed her. It was sweet and a little desperate, Sansa’s delicate whimper shooting straight to Ellaria’s belly. She kept her wits about her enough to walk them back to the bed, fingers catching on ties and loosening them where she could—Sansa’s own fingers fumbling along in return, until they only had to lift their shifts up and over their heads. At the sight of Sansa’s breasts, full and weighed down as they’d not been a year ago, Ellaria sucked in a breath and let it out to murmur thanks to the Goddess. It was love that made them appear thus and it was love that allowed her the pleasure of seeing them. Her prayer put a hesitant smile on Sansa’s lips and a blush flooding down her chest. 

“You always look at me like it is the first time you’re seeing me,” Sansa said in a low tone, reaching to twine her fingers together with Ellaria’s, “like I will always please you.”

“Ah but you will always please me, my love, there are few more pleasing to look at than you,” she replied, kissing first Sansa’s lips but then down her throat to between her breasts, kneeling down finally to nip gently just below the other woman’s navel. The skin was not so taught as it had been once before but the change was certainly welcome as it allowed her to do these wonderful things. 

“Even if I was as fat as an ox again?”

“You would be lovely, just as you were then,” Ellaria insisted before laying a few kisses on her lover’s thigh. They had been going slowly, waiting for Sansa to heal, but every day Sansa let Ellaria go a little further. Birthing a child was an experience that changed what a woman wanted and how she wanted it—it was the duty of her lover to learn the changes and understand them. Ellaria wanted very much to glean every mote of information from Sansa.

“You spoil me with such compliments,” Sansa said, sitting down on the bed while pulling on Ellaria’s hand to bring her with her. Her words were a bit chastising but her tone was not. Her tone beckoned and begged, just what Ellaria had been seeking and she did not make her companion wait. Ellaria put a gentle hand over Sansa’s heart and pushed her back on the covers, following with a heated kiss to Sansa’s lips while slipping a fingertip between her folds. Sansa twitched, inhaling a sharp breath through her nose, but she did not push Ellaria away. Instead she widened her legs and moaned when Ellaria slicked her fingers and then pushed them into Sansa, slowly and steadily, hooking the tips as she pulled them out. She mimicked what she was doing with her fingers with her tongue, moving faster as her lover’s hips started to move in time with her fingers. 

Soon enough Sansa put a hand between Ellaria’s legs and smoothed the pads of her fingers over and around the aching button of flesh there and Ellaria had to fight the urge to bite down on Sansa’s lower lip when the other woman palmed her breast. Sansa almost sobbed when Ellaria swept her thumb to Sansa’s own pearl and pushed it in time with a thrust of her fingers. She focused her efforts to bring Sansa off before Sansa did the same to her. It was a race and she laughed as they both tried to win it, her lips hovering just over Sansa’s. Everything was tight and too hot and Ellaria reveled in it even as she started to shudder. Sansa’s hot and breathy keening was sending her over the edge, leaving Ellaria in similar circumstances as she squeezed her eyes shut and gave in to the feeling.

Daemon found them dozing under the covers a while later, chuckling as he stepped back out to call for their breakfast to be brought in soon. Ellaria sleepily motioned for him to sit in one of the chairs near the bed, and the three of them talked quietly until Tevira and another servant came in and started laying out the food. Daemon was hardly dressed for the day, carrying only a pair of daggers at his side and his boots were poorly laced—they flopped and jiggled around his feet as he occasionally shifted which ankle was propped on the opposite knee. 

“Oberyn would trip you on principle,” Sansa murmured, watching him.

“Oberyn—” Daemon stopped himself short, shooting a naked glance at Ellaria before staring in the opposite direction intently. His attraction towards Sansa had been unmistakable for months but he knew the boundaries she set and respected them.

“Oberyn would have invited you in,” Sansa’s voice was small, “I know. I am sorry to be so selfish.” 

Ellaria drew in a breath to say something but Daemon beat her to it. 

“I think selfishness is deserved, my lady. You consider me a friend and I value that more highly than I think you imagine. Besides, Oberyn will come back and we will all have him once more,” he said, amusement coloring his last words. 

Sansa’s lips tweaked into a quick smile and she said something along the lines that there was more than enough Oberyn to go around. 

* * *

Edd didn’t like it. He’d thought of it and he didn’t like it. He’d gotten together the few men that could read at Castle Black and had them reading to the hedgewitches and soothsayers of the Wildlings anything at all pertaining to the construction of the Wall and the battles against the Others themselves. He had them do it in the main hall where people gathered for meals where all could see and hear the mixing of knowledge. There were grumbling complaints from both sides but slowly—day by day—more folk who weren’t otherwise occupied came to sit and listen. They chimed in occasionally. 

The men of the Watch were beginning to remember what it was to be human and the Wildlings were beginning to view them as human as well, it was like watching wet wood dry before the fire. If they were all going to die, if none of these schemes worked, then this was worth dying for. Seeing the pride in a man’s eyes when his words were met with respect. Seeing a child ask an elder for help, unafraid and wanting only answers. The simmering brutality and reactions of the men towards the women seeped away as they saw the women as more than foes or pieces of meat.

Whatever it took, he decided, as one of the Wildling women seemed to take a shine to him. They just had to wait until Jon returned from his errand to whoever was King of Westeros this turn of the moon.

* * *

 

“Lord Commander,” Prince Doran greeted, a faint smile lifting one side of his mouth for a bare moment before he gestured for Jon to come forward to take a seat. 

Sansa’s goodbrother was a man approaching his old age while he was barely middle aged. His eyes were especially sad as he took in Jon and his black furs. The blankets over his lap were thick and lovingly arranged, his ruined hands resting deathlike on the covers. They were pale and still and sent chills up Jon’s spine as he sat down across from the man. He’d seen a lot since leaving Winterfell but people who were old before their time made him uncomfortable. Jon had come to realize his uncle, Benjen, had been terribly young still—he had hardly been thirty the last time Jon had seen him but somehow his eyes were far older than even Father’s. 

It made him wonder, sometimes, if perhaps he and his surviving siblings looked older than they ought. They had lost much and lived through many hardships. 

Prince Doran’s dark eyes had seen similar horrors, though. 

“You are very far South for a man who has promised his life to the Watch,” the older man said, amusement lacing his words just enough to make it clear he did not criticize, “though had I lived in your shoes I would try to see my last sister at least one more time before going back to die.”

“I do hope I shall not die when I return to the Wall,” Jon replied with a chuckle, used to this grim sort of talk from people who had not actually  gone to the Wall to die there, “I mean—I shall. I shall die there. But I hope I do not ride through the gates and then fall down dead. Imagine! Hello my brothers, the Southron king pledges his supp— hurk,” he said, miming falling over from his chair. It got the dour prince across from him to laugh out loud, long and clear. When their laughter subsided though the serious once again touched Prince Doran’s eyes.

“There was a minstrel I heard of, when I was a young man, a man who had learned the songs of Sothyros and traveled throughout the Free Cities. He made his home in Lys, grew older and fatter—though his voice held and his fingers stayed nimble. He married a young woman, beautiful and energetic, and lived comfortably on his money. They say that he went to the privy after a strenuous encounter with his wife and that as he tried to shit his heart burst.” Jon tried to inject some seriousness into his tone as he replied:

“Death comes to us all—in all our glories.” He couldn’t keep a giggle in at the end, though.

“I tell that story when people pity me for my hands, for every joint that rebels and turns mutinous with each passing year. I do not lie to myself about the nature of my circumstances, and hopefully my end shall not surprise me. No choice of mine led me here, this has been fate alone.”

Jon didn’t know how to respond to that, really, for he was here based on his own whims and choices. Looking at Prince Doran he felt moved to share something he’d never spoken aloud for several years—what had the point been, after Father went South.

“My father tried to have me raised as the equal of my siblings. It was his right as the Lord of Winterfell—had Lady Catelyn never born him a son I would have been the natural choice for his heir. This of course would have enraged that great lady. She ensured I remembered I was nothing more than a mutt, which I suppose I must thank her for. That early adversity has served me well in the years since.”

“You were the eldest?”

Jon nodded, picking a little at the dirt under one of his nails.

“And her children, aside from Arya, had the Tully look. Red hair is little seen in the North, it is the color of Wildlings and Southrons alike. I have the Stark look, no matter what my mother must have looked like, and only seeing Lady Catelyn would convince any of the lords of the North that Robb was the trueborn heir of House Stark rather than myself.”

Prince Doran retracted one hand, the fingers twitching with pain as he resettled himself. His eyes didn’t waver, though, which Jon respected. It seemed, though, that there was something being kept tightly controlled in the other man. 

“It would be perhaps advisable to wait until the conclusion of Queen Daenerys’ war,” the subject change took Jon aback but he held his tongue, “for we Dornishmen do intend on winning this one. It is our time and is our revenge. Both ours and that of House Stark.” When Jon took a breath to protest, to contradict, the other man flicked it away with a twitch of his finger. 

“Why go all the way to the Wall only to turn around and proclaim yourself free of Queen Daenerys’ kingdoms? Stay here, learn a few last things of the world before you go to suffer and freeze. Your sister would appreciate the company, and we Martells have a lot of respect for Lord Eddard. You have his blood and we afford you the same respect. It has been many years since a Dornishman went to the Wall, too—you are a little less rare than the Queen’s dragons, but not by much.”

There was a coolness to the air now that pricked Jon’s ears and sharpened his focus. 

“You mean to keep me here as an exhibit?”

“No, I mean for you to encourage sympathy for your cause. We Dornish do not have much to give in terms of manpower, we do not forgive men their savagery, but if you stand before the Queen and declare yourself free of her rule it may help you. People find it hard to believe in what they cannot see.”

There was still something in Prince Doran’s face that gave Jon pause. A certain hardness to his eyes and a stillness of his mouth. Words lingered in him that he was keeping himself from speaking. The chill returned—had some spy informed on his dalliance with Princess Arianne? Did this man mean to use that as a sword above Jon’s neck until such time as he left Dorne? It was childish, fully childish, but Jon suddenly longed for his lonely journey once more. Only his horse, the direwolves, and his pathetic tree. Things from the North that served to remind him who he was and where he belonged. 

Jon resolved to own his shame and broken vows if Prince Doran attempted to use them against him—but he would not give the man his neck. Too many Starks seemed to stumble their way, carefree and chasing snowflakes, to the chopping block. He was a Snow but Stark blood ran in him. It was always a risk, something to be on the alert for. 

“I do not fault those who are careful with what they eat at a stranger’s table,” Jon said. It did not diminish the sharpness in the other man’s face but it did signal an end to that part of the conversation. They moved on to other topics for a long hour, sharing a little golden wine between them. Jon frowned at the Dornishman for the indulgence but made no comment. As he said—death would not be a surprise for him. 

What was surprising though was when Arianne swept in without so much as a by-your-leave. Her dress was rich purple with white embroidery, thick enough to keep her breasts decent even if someone dumped a pail of water over her head. Knowing as he did the curves of her body, the taste of her cunny, the sounds she made—the contrast of it all with her nearly demure dress certainly had his cock interested. Jon told himself to keep cool, to keep their secret, and he squawked when the lady deposited herself right into his lap. 

“My child are you sure this is wise?”

“Father I don’t intend on parading him before my Lannister,” Arianne replied, her tone laughing and carefree. She was so different in court, standing next to Lord Tyrion, her face closed and dour. This woman was something else entirely—focused intently on a scar on his jaw, trailing a finger along the bare space left when the beard refused to grow in over the scar tissue. This did not lighten the gaze that Prince Doran kept on him, though, and it made Jon wonder why. He dearly would like to know why, he decided, even as Arianne pecked a kiss to his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! 
> 
> Thank you for reading, please let me know what you thought of this chapter!


	96. Margaery, Jeyne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have Margaery and Loras doing Tyrell things at the beginning and then some Jeyne Poole at the end. I hope you enjoy it! We are, after some really great advice and 'punching up' of things close to the end of this long tale! Probably 8-10 chapters away, actually!
> 
> I did hear some of the comments in the last chapter's section for less smut more action--pretty rare a fic writer hears that, so I tried to deliver! I'm...not good at fight scenes. But I am good at...whatever this chapter is!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this!

Margaery made sure their company arrived in King’s Landing in the earliest hours of the morning, when even the most diligent bakers and nightsoil wagoners were abed. Her men were quiet as they escorted her into the keep where Varys met her with a grim set to his mouth. She hoped she didn’t look too pale in the moonlight for she had tried the last few weeks to keep her cool. These coming days were a gamble like no other undertaken since the time of Aegon the Conqueror. Aegon was nothing compared to his descendant, though, for he came with only his family and dragons at his back. Queen Daenerys had grief and armies in addition to her dragons.

Her brother Loras immediately began planning their defenses. They had to last long enough, once the Targaryen forces arrived at the city, to make their case to the Targaryen queen. She would hopefully have pity on Margaery and her unborn babe, hopefully she would not torch the city—though she did not have a right to expect it, Margaery hoped to repel the woman and retain her reign as Queen. Only if this last succeeded would Margaery retrieve Tommen from the religious enclave she had installed him in. A few Tyrell men-at-arms had had to carry the young king into the place and give him up to the septons within. 

The best a pretender king could expect was a life of religious contemplation or a life at the Wall—Margaery could not condemn her husband to the Wall, it simply was not in her. It was too cruel. 

Loras was open and honest with her about their chances: low to nil. He joked that if they had someone like Stannis Baratheon come to their aid they might have a real chance. Her brother said in a low voice as they both looked on a map of Westeros that morning, the dawn rising quickly with red fingers, that he could promise her time and little else. They would minimize the losses of life among the smallfolk by capitulating early. 

They would likely only escape with their lives. 

It took about a day before people other than Varys began to question where the King had gone. His guards that had come with them knew his fate but had been sworn to secrecy on pain of death—those that had remained in King’s Landing asked anyone they could. Tommen had been seen as a young but religious and responsible king. The guards could believe that he had delayed his journey a short time at a monastery or other sacred place—but he would not be derelict in his duty to the Realm. Margaery plead weakness from the babe she carried and retired to her rooms, leaving Varys to provide the answers that were sought. 

King’s Landing was ripe for his rumors—the news of the Targaryen armies caused enough fear on its own, however the rumor that the King had deserted the Queen was believable enough. There was a warring rumor, also started by Varys as almost all rumors were, that the King had gone to treat with Lord Arryn to protect the Realm with the only untested—and unfatigued, army on the continent. The difference in the rumors bolstered the confusion that simmered up into the Small Council where Margaery appointed several lords of the Reach to act on the King’s behalf. 

Every morning, as the days wore on and more news reached them of victories taken by a large force coming up through the Stormlands, Margaery closed her eyes and visualized the path she and Loras would take out of the keep. Every stair had been counted and she stood alone in her room while she repeated them, getting used to how her heart pounded and her lungs demanded air. They would have a skiff waiting with fisherman’s clothes for Loras and a dirty shift for her. Margaery took to wearing gloves to avoid showing the dirtiness of her now-unkempt nails, knowing that her hands were how a lady’s disguise was often unmasked. 

If Varys turned his cloak at the last Margaery also made her peace with the Seven so she might face her fate with grace. Still she promised herself she would not go quietly into death, she would fight, she would be remembered as going down in a blaze of glory. The Dragon Queen would not soon forget Margaery Tyrell. And who knows—perhaps this would, by some miracle, become the same close alliance between Tyrell, Baratheon (how fitting the last Baratheons in the South were bastards), and Targaryen. 

“Your Grace,” a man yelled across the court as she walked through the upstairs gallery to the Grand Maester’s chambers one afternoon, “where is King Tommen? Why does he abandon us before the scourge?”

Margaery slowed and then stilled as she turned to stand at the railing. 

“His Grace is indisposed, he bid me return to the capital and only said he would come to my side soon. He said look to the Warrior in these turbulent days, as his father did before him—or you may join me with the rest of the women as we pray to the Mother for safety and sanctuary.”

The court had been restless but quieted to eerie silence as the lords and ladies bent their ear to their queen. Turncloaks and cowards, Margaery thought to herself as she curtsied deeply and then hurried on to the maester. It was little wonder that Lord Stark had been so disgusted as to actually speak truth to these cutthroats. Unlike the piteous Starks, Margaery and her kin knew better than to tell anything like the truth. Lies were armor and weapon all in one. 

Years of war had decimated the City Watch as well as the armies pledged to the Crown—half of the Lannister forces had been disbanded and it was proving difficult to find the men once more to call them up for duty to their King. It did not help, of course, that there was no King and that the current Lord Lannister was missing in Dorne—Ser Kevan Lannister was acting as steward of the Westerlands and he had his niece’s caprices to deal with. Cersei Lannister went to her widowhood ungracefully and only barely escaped being chained to a motherhouse after her debacle in Highgarden. 

When word came that forces bearing gold as well as black and red flags—symbols of the Golden Company as well as House Targaryen—had landed near Crackclaw Point it caused panic to ripple through the city. There was a riot at one of the gates as some smallfolk and minor merchants tried to escape what they thought would soon be a death trap. Margaery did not fault them overmuch, though she allowed Loras to punish any of the instigators that were found to be causing panic on purpose, for the last time the city had been taken it had been a sack. Tywin Lannister’s forces had murdered anyone who resisted the least bit, even those who greeted him as their savior. Those without swords had good reason to fear the acts of invaders and conquerors. 

Margaery had seasoned men go out and make bold speeches, she sent for one of Tommen’s guard—paid to obey green and gold colors—who announced that the King made his way to meet those forces at Crackclaw Point, that King Robert’s youngest child wielded the warhammer that had ended the last Targaryen tyrant. It bolstered the morale of the smallfolk at least, and the courtiers by now knew better than to question the news in blatant terms. Margaery had never been part of a siege, nor seen the build up of it, though she knew that the mood of the people was the most important. A woman leading went one of two ways: that of Dornishwomen such as Princesses Nymeria and Meria, respected and obeyed by their men; or that of Argella Durandon, delivered naked and in irons to her enemies. It came down to whether or not the men believed in the woman, if she was worth dying over. 

When the fleet was sighted rounding the Sharp Point with terrifying Volantene sails—red and white tiger stripes—capped with Targaryen banners, Margaery began repeating her escape plan when she rose in the mornings and when she finished dressing for bed. The lies of the Arryn armies would not last much longer, but she only needed them to hold long enough for the blockade to settle in. Once the blockade was in place then her council would be able to claim that no more information was making it in from the King or his men. 

Margaery prayed daily that she was given every chance and break of luck and that that luck would hold. It had to hold.

* * *

 

Jeyne patted at the forehead of the tiny girlchild that had been brought to them by the gruff man wearing Baratheon colors. She remembered both of them, standing further on and watching Lord Wyman speak with the Baratheon man. The child of that pretender king and the advisor to that man. The girl’s face was scarred and disfigured, twisted where she grew and her dead cheek did not. It looked like the gray coals of a morning’s fire, withered in the center but red beneath where the coals were turned. It seemed as though it must hurt awfully, and it was this that spurred Jeyne to bathe the skin the same as all the rest. The child had not woken, though she twitched and mumbled in her sleep most awfully. 

Lord Wyman had a maester treating the man, Davos or something like it. 

Each of them had had frost bitten toes, though only the girl—Shireen—would lose a toe to it. They burned with fevers but were expected to pull through. It pleased Jeyne that Lord Wyman had taken them in, for she worried he was too harsh and had forgotten Lord Stark’s humbleness and kindness. They had all started to forget what a Stark looked like in form and action and it only drove home the old addage that her father had often intoned as she’d grown up: there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. 

When the girl woke she was hardly sensible, talking quickly of dragons and dark hallways—and asking after the man who had brought her here. Jeyne had no ready lie for the child though. The old man had taken a bad turn the day prior and the maester worried if he would survive his fevers. The gaunt little girl took in the look on Jeyne’s face with impassion, some disappointed sadness making her lips turn down the very slightest bit. 

“He is a lord of a keep in the Stormlands,” the little girl said, “if he passes please treat him accordingly.”

Jeyne felt a chill pass down her back, the way that one would crawl across her shoulders when she watched the men go to the hall where Lord Stark would hear their grievances. It was the voice of a lord that came out of the child in the bed before her. This was the child of a king, no matter that that king was foolish and probably frozen to death out in the wastes of winter. 

“I will make your wishes known to Lord Manderly, milady,” Jeyne said as she stood up, wiping her hands on her skirts as she walked back towards the doorway.

The child sank a little back into the pillows at the address—if it was relief or depression Jeyne could not tell. Jeyne wanted to ask for a brief moment but decided against it. The North had no king but one of Stark blood, and the South might as well burn for all Jeyne cared of it. There were no royals within these walls. 

“Will you—will you light a candle for him? Or—or sit before one of those red trees a moment?” There was something in Jeyne that ached at the innocent sound of the words. She had once been a child who had innocent wants like this. She had paused to listen but now she turned fully to give a short curtsy.

“It will be as you wish, milady.”

“I thank you.”

Given the seriousness of the maester when asked about his other charge, Jeyne chose to act immediately. She instantly knew she would have to ask the gods of the South to save Davos of the Stormlands. The old gods were inscrutable and their answers were sometimes no answers at all. A southron princess would know nothing of something like that. The sept that had belonged to Lady Catelyn was therefore the answer—a candle, the child had said, just light a candle.

The sept was not a place that had weathered the Boltons all that well. The sparrows, who Lord Wyman had briefly played host to before throwing them out of Winterfell when they suggested forcing Jeyne to join their numbers, had done some improvements but the place was icy and defaced still. Lord Manderly’s men worked slowly for the winter often forced them to look elsewhere in the castle to repair roofs and windows. 

Jeyne’s father had followed the old gods, nor had he ever heartily approved of Lady Stark’s choice to educate her children in both faiths. Jeyne had gone to the sept sometimes with Sansa when they were children but that had been the extent of it. She knew there were seven faces of one god, all gods in and of themselves. There was the Maiden and the Warrior, the Father and the Mother, the Smith and the Crone, and then the Stranger last of all. Bounty, success, love, protection, ability, wisdom—and death. 

Jeyne did not know how to entreat to these gods, neither words nor actions. The child had said a candle, believing light to be a saving grace.

She marched towards the Stranger, the skeleton rendered in bones draped in a tattered robe. The grinning skull had once unnerved her but not now. There were worse things in this world than a dry skull.

“You will leave these southrons untouched,” she announced, drawing her shawl close about her shoulders, “they have been foolish and have lost much to their folly. Whatever lessons you and the others diced over have been learned. If you must touch one, though, touch the old man sooner than later. Do not make him suffer for his kindness.”

That chill visited her shoulders once more but Jeyne held her ground. The old gods were jealous and fickle but they ought not fear her loyalty. Death came to all men no matter their shape or age or goodness, and it was this fell creature that would come for the knight at the time of his death. Lord Manderly’s daughter had spoken of Braavos, where men worshiped death as a god itself—skipping the other six of the Seven and skipping ideas such as all-seeing light or the inscrutability of the old gods. Knowing there was that much more of the world both pained her and gave her hope. There were places in the world that a Stark might hide and live—there was word that Sansa had taken up a life in Dorne, though whether or not she was there by choice was another matter it seemed, and there were rumors that a wild redheaded child had lately lived on the island of Skaagos. 

Jeyne trusted that the old gods would return a Stark to Winterfell, for it was they that had long dictated that there must always be a Stark within those walls. She stared at the skeletal figure for a while longer, willing it to understand that she must be listened to and obeyed, before whipping around and returning to the keep to keep vigil over the little would-be princess. The gods were all the same in that they would either listen or they would not. There was little that a man or woman might do to change their course after speaking their entreaty. 

The girl was awake and taking a mouthful of soup at a time from Wylla Manderly. The ladle was filled with thick, creamy soup, and Jeyne could smell the rashers that had been cooked into the stuff from the doorway of the room. 

“Milady I have done as you asked,” Jeyne said with another curtsy, coming to sit next the little girl. She got a warm smile for her efforts and felt a blush creep up her neck at it. After the horrors of the last few years she was yet unused to the kindness of the Manderly sisters, nor it seemed of the tiny king’s daughter that had come to Winterfell half-frozen and half-dead. The idea that there was still kindness in the world was still a little alien to her but as she reached for the little girl’s hand and held it, Jeyne tried to believe in it a little more. 

“Thank you, Jeyne,” the child said, startling her with the genuine gratitude in the tone. 

“You—you are most welcome, milady.”

“Shireen, please, call me Shireen,” the girl, Shireen, replied with another warm smile. 

“Shireen, you are most welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all ever so much for your support, it blows me away that there are so many people who have read this fic and have re-read this fic (this is hella long, I have to give you mad props for that!!), who comment and give a little love and support on this. I wrote a 100k fic 5 or 6 years ago and never thought I'd write something that long again. 
> 
> I've been having some crazy writer's block the last...many months, and I am sorry that you've all been waiting so long for updates. That you have stuck with me is wonderful and I love you all for it. I have had some wonderful advice on the direction of the story and I am excited to write it again; when I'm excited I can write more. As anyone who remembers those first heady days (there were like...near-daily updates), when I'm excited I write a lot. 
> 
> That all said: please let me know what you thought of this chapter, I look forward to hearing from you!


	97. Oberyn, Gendry, Dany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh. I'm sorry I haven't been updating this story. I have been having some pretty paralyzing writer's block on it. I have been working on this chapter since literally right after my last update. I've been feeling a little sheepish about this monster when we are in the midst of a freaking golden age of Oberyn/Sansa fanfic. If you haven't been following the recently posted & updated ones you are missing out. Seriously, check those fics out. Hot damn. 
> 
> But as for this chapter: I have finally gotten it up to snuff, I hope, so please enjoy!

“You ride like a sack of potatoes,” Oberyn said as he watched Arya put her horse through its paces. They had claimed the horse for their company from a dead knight and he wanted to make sure that such a small girl was able to ride unassisted before setting out on the road. He did not want to return to Sansa only to tell her that her sister had broken her neck for being a fool. Sansa would probably leave him to follow Arya, once all of this was over, and despite how much that hurt she had been through too much for him to overlook her sister’s safety.

Not that Arya was making it very easy on him. 

“I ride just fine. The Hound never said anything about how I ride, and neither did my father or my brothers.”

She reminded him painfully of Obara when she had first come to live with him. The same fire and anger, the insistence on her own way being the only one she would accept. It took time to build up her trust in him but that had taken years. With Arya he had mere weeks, perhaps a few months. 

“Clegane is not a fine rider, no Clegane ever was, and it is in the nature of fathers and brothers to indulge their daughters and sisters. You are bouncing up and down, you’ll tire faster and be sorer for it. You need to sit a horse, not perch on it. Your sister has the same problem, don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Arya scowled darkly at him and Oberyn dragged a hand down his face. She’d begun with bad habits and would have to suffer for them before she chose to learn. Sansa’s skills were passably decent and there would be time for her to develop them over time should she choose. It was not the worst thing in the world to be unskilled on a horse but given that Dorne had so few navigable rivers he and his people had a strong tradition of horsemanship. A man alone might ride, on a sand steed, between Kingsgrave and Sunspear in two weeks if he was a good rider and didn’t exhaust himself pointlessly. Oberyn hoped Sansa would grow to truly enjoy it someday, but for now he had to ensure Arya did not exhaust herself and need to be left behind—he was fairly sure she’d kill him if he tried.

“How far are we from King’s Landing?”

“Ten or twelve days, I would say. Depends on if there’s any militia waiting for us near Storm’s End. We should make good time after that, we can thank a Baratheon king fond of his bastard for that. There are well kept roads between that ugly castle and the capitol last I heard.”

The girl’s face grew still as she concealed some thought from him. She was good at keeping some things to herself, others not so much. It was a bit amusing what she chose to share or hide. Oberyn remembered being that way around Doran when he was younger and all the times he’d eventually caved and told his older brother everything. It was better to let it out than keep it in and let it fester.

“Arya.”

“My father thought his greatest friend was Robert Baratheon. Robert Baratheon thought the same—they were fond, sentimental men.”

“Sentimentality is not always a bad thing,” Oberyn retorted, tasting acid as he backtracked on his earlier meaning. Arya scoffed and urged her horse a bit faster, her short hair jumping along in time with how poorly she sat the horse. He swallowed back a half-formed apology for it was bad enough that he’d misunderstood her words. Instead Oberyn cleared his throat and called out a correction to her seating. 

The next day dawned early and there was still an awkward quiet between them. The young Stark woman that was his goodsister munched down on the last bit of pigeon pie that they’d bought from a little hamlet days ago. Along with all of her soldiers, some green and some battle-hardened, Queen Daenerys had also brought with her wealth from her journeys in Essos—her soldiers did not starve on the road between battles, nor did they pillage to supplement their rations. It was not a novelty for Oberyn who had learned to make war in Essos, but it did seem to be for Arya. She could certainly eat but she was also cautious about portioning her food—a care she’d picked up from wandering with the Hound, no doubt. 

They stayed silent until almost midday when one of the scouts returned. 

“The men of Storm’s End are marching to King’s Landing to aid the defense, milord,” the young woman said after being given some water and dried fruit, her fair skin and light brown hair belying her Dornish roots. She’d come with Lady Qorgyle’s men, offering her keen eyes and fast horse to Prince Doran. 

“How do you know they don’t go to make war? The men of Storm’s End are notoriously loyal to House Baratheon—and there is still a Baratheon wandering the wastes of the North, if I remember,” Oberyn kept his voice low as he looked at the crude map the scout had drawn in the soil. 

“The roses of Highgarden flew among the stags of Storm’s End.”

“It would be smart to attack them now,” Arya said, sneaking a piece of dried apple into her mouth. Oberyn chanced a smile at her before teasing:

“And confirm for all the world how cowardly Dornishmen are, to attack a militia as they retreat.”

“It’s also cowardly to abandon the smallfolk to the mercies of an invading army,” Arya countered immediately, though there was no acid in her tone meant for Oberyn. She spoke the truth too: Tywin Lannister had cut a bloody swath between Casterly Rock and King’s Landing when he’d chosen to side with Robert Baratheon twenty years ago, many of the smallfolk had been slaughtered—none had helped them. 

It would bode well indeed that the host of Daenerys Targaryen passed by these people without harming even their sheep. It was basic cyvasse: rabble protected dragons, and Daenerys was most definitely a dragon before she was a queen. From Arya’s smile her thoughts were of the same tack. He knew he wasn’t exactly forgiven but he wasn’t exactly in trouble anymore either. 

“We certainly can’t let them get to King’s Landing, best we get a move on,” Oberyn said, standing up and scuffing out the map.

* * *

 

Gendry had seen a great deal more of the world than he’d dreamed of when working for Tobho on the Street of Steel—but he’d always intended to avoid Casterly Rock, if he ever left King’s Landing. It was the seat of Quee—Lady Cersei’s power for her power had been the threat of calling down her father, and any place that had spawned such a woman as Lady Cersei and Lord Tywin Lannister was not one he wished to see. After the horrific thing she’d told him Gendry had felt even more reluctant to go there—but he was bound to do so. 

At least until he figured out how to escape the Lannister company. 

The Rock was visible as a bruise against the sky a full two day’s ride away from its gates. As they rode towards it the weather seemed to change. It was foreboding in Lannister territory. Robb Stark had never penetrated this far south but, unlike in the Reach, the War of the Five Kings had certainly touched the Westerlands. The lands themselves had a kind of harsh beauty—but they were stiff and dead looking despite the summer greenery turning to fiery fall colors, like a painted wall he’d seen once when delivering a sword to the house of a wealthy merchant. 

The people alarmed Gendry the most. They lined the roads to bow low to—and try to catch a look at—Lady Cersei but they did not cheer or make merry. Their faces were long and whatever chants their village headmen tried to encourage were dirgelike. The smallfolk and minor lords alike were a beaten people. Beneath Lord Tywin they had known to keep their heads down else they too become memorialized in song—and Lord Tywin had ruled here for a lifetime. 

The woman who had birthed him confined herself in the small wheelhouse that the Tyrells had loaned them for this journey. Gendry had been outfitted in Baratheon colors however Lady Cersei wore red and gold—and more red, and more gold. The few days she chose to ride she wore a grand riding cloak with a huge lion emblazoned on the back of it, her blond hair in thick white-gold curls falling down her back. 

She had one of her still-loyal cousins watching him closely when she did not do it herself. Gendry chafed under the scrutiny and it made him sleep poorly. How often had the Kingslayer sent some lowly knight to commission Tobho, to spy on Gendry as he grew up among the fires and hot iron, and reported what he found to Lady Cersei? Was it because his father was Robert Baratheon that the Kingslayer overlooked the conditions he was raised in? Gendry had come to the conclusion in recent days that something in Casterly Rock was evil enough that a queen and a knight could both conspire for the crown prince to grow up as a letterless bastard. 

The people living around the base of the Rock were better with their shows of cheer but Gendry could see their smiles fall as soon as the Lannister soldiers passed by them. There were no windows in the back of the wheelhouse to worry about, after all. Looking up at the seat of the Lannisters he could not blame them. Casterly Rock was too tall to climb, let alone attempt it unnoticed, and the path to the top did not lend itself to an army making a full assault. No, there were no armies left in Westeros or anywhere who might be able to wait the lions out in a siege and there were no dragons left in the world who might sail through the air to take it from above. 

They said the Lannister gold mines were running out, others said that the Lannister gold mines were endless though too—and the Lannisters confirmed neither rumor, only pulled more gold out from beneath their mighty keep and bought the things they desired. A full-Lannister king on the throne. Those who slighted them dead and defiled, with no one left strong enough to oppose them. 

The company made camp a few hours outside of Lannisport, intending to wake early the next day and make the trek up to the castle atop the Rock. As he made the motions of bedding down Gendry decided this was his last chance to escape. If he went into the halls of his grandfather then Lady Cersei would never let him escape. He would be her guard dog, obviously too big and unrefined to sit like a terrier on a cushion, and the freedom he had tasted so briefly in Highgarden would never again be his. 

Maybe he would find Arya out in the world, he thought with a brief smile as he waited for the camp to fall asleep around him. They had not posted many guards, knowing themselves deep within their own territory with few brave enough to attempt something against the King’s mother. She would have known some secret assassin to aid their escape, had she been with him, and her better education would show as she decided on their direction of travel. He missed her. 

Once those around him were snoring soundly Gendry sat up and started to slowly and silently pack his bedroll back up. They would sniff and call him honorless, that the King had been foolish to knight a blacksmith and give him a name other than ‘Waters,’ and most amusing of all they would call him ill-bred. Of all things he at least knew, now, that he was anything but ill-bred.  Tricksters and kings, I’ve the blood of tricksters and kings , he told himself as he crept to his horse. He could sell some of the things he’d been kitted out with, and worse to worse he could set himself up as a blacksmith once more. It was good, steady money, a solid place in a community. Blacksmiths didn’t often starve. 

Perhaps he would go northwards—if Arya had gone anywhere after he’d last seen her she would have gone to the North, to Winterfell if she could. He was sure of it.

* * *

 

Dany put down the letter that had come from the Stormlands. Prince Oberyn expressed some pride in the men he had under him, a mix of Dornishmen and some of the Unsullied that Dany had brought with her. They’d easily overwhelmed the holdfast that they’d first encountered, gaining the surrender before more than a dozen or so lives were lost. A fierce woman named Marya had scolded a half-grown boy for menacing them with a pike, yelling at the men who had ignored her as the fighting began. The woman had demanded they stand down from the beginning, saying Dornishmen did not hurt lambs only fucked them, but had been overruled by the leader of her men-at-arms. 

The prince of course objected to the ugly belief she had of himself and his homeland but it gratified him to liberate her of the men who dared presume themselves her better. 

He also wrote that his wife’s sister had, as Sansa had suspected, stowed away on his ship. Arya had decided she was his squire, though he hoped to send her back to Dorne at the first opportunity for war was not the place to take untrained squires. Dany smiled at the image of the dark haired, long faced girl that the prince’s words summoned. She was the one who would lead the North, Dany was sure of it, not Sansa. Lady Sansa had found her footing in a strange place and would thrive there—Dany could admire and respect that. 

But she could also understand throwing oneself headlong in a mad journey towards some myth called “home.” After a lifetime of wandering, going from high-highs to low-lows, after fear and happiness, plenty and famine, her own journey was nearly at an end. King’s Landing would fall, she would subdue the Lannisters and their allies, and she would rule Westeros. 

“Quent,” she called softly, raising a hand in the air that her sweet husband quickly took and laid a soft kiss to, “how are you and Rhaegal getting on?”

“He’s only tried to roast me once this week, I think it was a sneeze though,” Quentyn’s voice was wryly amused. 

“He will have to get over his sniffles,” she said archly, setting the letter aside for now and standing up, fitting her body up against Quentyn’s as she did so, “for we will be leaving for King’s Landing within the week. Your uncle is making good time through the Stormlands.”

This war was only barely started and already looked to be coming to a swift end. Her husband’s family were solid allies, she had taken the Kingslayer into her service, the Lannisters were in disarray, and her armies swelled in numbers far greater than any ever mustered by the lords of Westeros—though she truly had no more claim to Westeros than Aegon the Conqueror had had, only her wits and her dragons. It was just as well for, outside of her husband’s people, women here were not considered for inheritance. Arianne had explained it to her: there had been a meeting, they’d called it a Great Council, many, many decades ago. The son of a king’s daughter could not inherit without first exhausting the male line as far as it could go. Her mother had been a king’s daughter, and her father a king, but according to these Westerosi she had no claim. No son of hers could ever have a claim, either. 

So Dany would do what she had always done since shortly after Viserys had sold her to Drogo. Drogo had not given her his respect just because she wanted it—she had taken it from him. She did not have dragons just because she wanted the eggs to hatch—she had put them in what she thought was her own funeral pyre, wrenching creatures of myth from death’s own hands. Armies and cities and her own legend were only hers because she had reached out and claimed them. She would seize what she wanted with both hands. 

Like now, she thought with a bit of glee, for she had Quentyn and she  also  had two hands. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I do hope that you liked it! Let me know what you thought!


	98. Osha, Doran, Daemon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you I would update soon!

Osha liked the harshness of the Hellholt. The heat would be unbearable come Summer, but for now though it was only windy and oppressively warm. She did not like discarding her sturdy clothing to be folded away into a chest, wearing instead leggings and a light tunic like the men around her, but it was better than fainting away in the heat. This was Winter in Dorne: hotter than any summer day she’d ever lived through. Hopefully by the time Winter was through Konnick and his wolves would be grown enough to leave, but for now it was nice enough. Save the foul air near the river, and thankfully they were often upwind rather than downwind of it, it was a pleasure to explore the surrounding area.

Konnick had fewer nightmares here, going to bed early so he could wake hours before dawn—running with his wolves when the air was cool. She braided his hair, grown out to just past his shoulders, in a crown around his head as the men in her village had worn theirs. The boy was strong, his body skinny but also sturdy from running and wrestling with growing direwolves, and would probably grow up to be quite tall. He resembled his half-brother, Jon Snow, far more than he did his sister despite sharing her coloring.

 _Matke, the old man says he may take us to the sea—I don’t want to leave_ , he signed to her now as she taught him to smooth a bird bone into a needle. Osha glanced across the room at their hosts, sitting near the windows and drinking wine, their conversation low.

 _He knows how hot it is for us, for the wolves, he does not bear any ill intent_ , she replied, _he is just a grandfather. We will come back here after._

Konnick’s bright blue eyes stayed steady on hers, seeing if she spoke the truth or not. Osha held his eyes, acknowledging his fears by doing so. He had had to run for so much of his young life, he needed honesty and respect. He needed someone to assure him that he was not a mad child. He also needed someone, from time to time, to calm his nerves. A child of war, of a slaughtered family, was right to be suspicious of strangers.

 _Do you think Sansa will visit soon?_ He changed the subject, having decided she—and Lord Harmon—were being straight with him.

_Perhaps. We will see._

Later that evening Lord Harmon sat next to her, not too near, and watched her make more needles. Bird bones were hollow and easier to work into needles than others, though they did not hold their shape so well as elk bones when boiled into curved needles for hide.

“I have never seen or even heard of the language you use with the boy,” the man said softly after a few minutes, “it is so subtle, I sometimes hardly see it.” Osha glanced up at him, her hand stilling from their task. He was an old man, one who’d never known anything cooler than the floor of a cellar, but he had accepted them into his home. He allowed Konnick to keep his direwolves inside the keep, not out in the kennels with the Uller hounds.

“We use it when we meet other tribes who may not speak our tongue. My people lived closer to the Wall and we spoke Andaii well enough. The hand signs came in useful on Skaagos, though, they did not speak Andaii almost at all where we first landed. Konnick prefers it greatly, as it keeps the eyes of his wolves on him rather than whatever chicken they’ve spotted.”

He laughed shortly, leaning back into the chair he’d chosen.

“Will he ever choose to go back North?”

Osha looked away from him towards the windows on the other side of the room, thinking of what she knew of the little boy.

“He liked Skaagos. He was free to be himself—mad, living in his wolves, feeding all of us and keeping us safe from the elements as we roamed about. If that was what he was going back to he might—but he is not meant to be dressed up and called ‘milord,’ all day.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw him nod.

“Well, you are both welcome to stay here as long as you like. A child like that is not savage to an Uller, nor are they considered totally mad.”

“Just a bit,” Osha murmured, a tease in her voice. The old man smiled and nodded again.

“Just a bit.”

* * *

 

Doran did not completely agree with what his daughter was doing. He knew well enough what she meant to do, he would have done perhaps the same thing if he were in her situation—and he could not get away with it nearly so easily as she would, for a man could not present his bastard as his wife’s trueborn chlid. A Princess of Dorne, though, presented her eldest child as her heir and none could question her. And though Arianne did not know it, her lover came from good stock. Not that Jon Snow was in a position to ever claim anyone’s child as his own—that was something his men would no doubt stab him in the night for.

It was an interesting point that Lord Tyrion never directly accused anyone of sleeping with his wife. There were a few possible reasons for it. Perhaps he only grew suspicious, wishing to know if there were anything Doran could offer to ease his mind. Perhaps he’d found evidence but lacked a name. Perhaps he knew every sordid detail but did not want to be so bold as to say that Arianne had taken the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch to her bed.

“I am only asking if there could be a septon found who—”

“Who would what? Stand vigil at my daughter’s bedside?”

“Would encourage her to think on her legacy,” Lord Tyrion’s tone was delicate, meant to lull Doran into agreeing to something not in his best interests. “And that perhaps she give thought to avoiding appearing wanton and…unfettered by her marriage vows.”

Doran blinked and let a smile grace his lips for a moment. Of course Tywin Lannister’s son would dare to meet with the Prince of Dorne to instruct him on disciplining his daughter. Lord Tyrion would think it his due, no doubt after attempting to get what he wanted from Arianne herself, that his wife’s father would intercede on his behalf.

“My daughter will have to do a great deal in order to appear, as you say, wanton and unfettered by marriage, given the example set for Dorne by both myself and my brother. She does not trail bastards behind her, lest I have mistook a son for a daughter, and she keeps to the same castle as her husband. My wife has not lived in Dorne for a decade, and I am free to do as I like—”

“She has stated she will obtain her own heirs, that no child of mine will ever inherit Dorne,” his good-son interrupted him sharply. Now they were getting somewhere. Doran decided to drive the point Arianne was making home.

“Perhaps she intends on naming Trystane her heir, and my line shall continue through your niece the Princess Myrcella?”

“She is only barely a maid, I have hardly seen her since I arrived here in Dorne. You paraded her for your festival, but now you say she is with your father’s family in Ghost Hill.”

“She is young, but she is wed to my son. There must be some sweetness in your family for her to turned out as she has. I am proud to call her a daughter of House Martell.”

Lord Tyrion dragged his hand down his face and made an aborted reach for the wine in front of him. He was perfectly content dicing with a set he’d loaded himself but playing with someone else’s dice annoyed him greatly. There was not much comfort Doran could offer him for there was no way to sneak a new set into the game. At least the man was resisting the urge to comfort himself with drink today.

“She said to me, in bold terms, that she would find a man to give her her heir. She informed me I would not share her bed again. There was no coy pretense, sometime I would admire in another situation. Princess Arianne is my wife in the eyes of the Seven, she is bou—”

“My daughter is not your plaything or your possession,” Doran said in his softest voice, the one he kept for his most serious dealings, “you would do well to remember that. You too can be a beloved son of House Martell, you do not have to choose to be unhappy. I am sure Arianne would rather you live in contentment than…as you appear to me now.”

The look he got was pure poison and Doran lost his patience and therefore his careful words. Rather than explode though he folded his hands in his lap and sat a bit straighter in his chair. Arianne had married this man in answer to Doran’s challenge and therefore any problems arising within that marriage were not Arianne’s to bear alone.

“I only offer an alternative, you may choose to live however you wish to as a member of our family. I fear, though, that I have overtaxed myself and need to retire. Thank you for your illuminating company, should you need to speak with me again before I return to the Water Gardens please be sure to let Hotah know.” He looked away, out the window, and willed himself to tranquility once more.

His daughter’s husband waited a little longer, probably trying to glare Doran into speaking to him once more. But Doran had been the elder brother of the Red Viper for more more than thirty years and he was well-used to shutting out a man who wanted to have a tantrum. Eventually Lord Tyrion gave him, muttering darkly to himself as he walked out. Doran’s shoulders relaxed greatly once he was alone again.

In truth he hoped that his goodson took his advice: learn to be content, take what Arianne would give him, and forge a life here in Dorne. It was not of course what the son of Tywin Lannister would want to do but it was all that was left to him. Arianne and her family would not allow Lord Tyrion to rule Dorne on her behalf or control the private dynamics of their marriage and the sooner the younger man learned that the happier he would be.

Oh but Doran’s hands ached.

Wearily he sent for Hotah and Caeleotte. He had spent many years, and a deal of gold, on this plan. At first it had been to create a proper wedding gift for whatever Targaryen might wed one of his children. Then it had gotten some urgency when the news reached them here in Sunspear: Daenerys Targaryen had arrived in Qarth with three rapidly growing lizards that breathed smoke. Then she appeared in Astapor with wyrms the size of hounds—from there Yunkai, and then Meereen, each time she appeared the creatures with her grew in size. Either by rumor or truth, Doran had felt that his old quest of a proper wedding gift was justified.

She had shared with him how she’d created her dragons, the fear she’d had but also the all-encompassing pain. For now he could bear his own, but it was getting worse with each passing month. In a few years he would have to be carried between his chair and his bed or else spend all his days beneath his blankets—half delirious with dreamwine and milk of the poppy.

“You sent for us, my prince?” Hotah said, bowing low.

“Yes, I have need of you both. Caeleotte, we must needs review my potions and salves. I grow so acutely aware of my pain, I wish to know less of it. And Hotah, you told me once that the priests at your temple taught you to compel the pain away. It is certainly a late stage to learn such a skill, but I hope you might indulge an old man.”

The two men, both bound to him but in different fashions, glanced at one another before Hotah gestured for Caeleotte to speak first. They would help Doran hang on for a little while longer, long enough for Arianne to sort out her marital problems—maybe long enough to hold a grandchild, even—long enough for Queen Daenerys to fulfill an ancient hope of vengeance. With fire and blood.

As the maester bent his attention to Doran’s left hand, the worse of the two, and tutting at the inflammation at the joints, Doran wondered if before he attempted his mad plan he ought to let Myles flay open the knuckles. At least to study them while they were attached to a living man.

* * *

 

Daemon made sure to advertise his movements to Sansa as he taught her the footwork of handling daggers. She had sat with him recently, holding Ellaria’s little girl, and methodically gone through the weapons she’d been gifted since her wedding. Daemon taught her which ones were for simple stabbing, blade-to-blade combat, utilitarian knives that were good for slicing food, and finer things like what happened to someone based on the shape of the blade. Sansa favored the intricate ones, the edges wickedly curved, for their leather sheaths were stamped and filigreed and their hilts were jeweled.

All the fancy knives in the world wouldn’t help, though, if you got your feet tangled up.

“Once you’ve got this,” he said now as they circled each other, “we are going to work on reading movements. Speed doesn’t matter if you can’t tell what someone is going to do.” Sansa nodded, holding his gaze and not looking at either of their feet. She was an accomplished dancer and he had made sure to explain the footwork to her in similar terms. In case he forgot anything they had the Blackfish watching them, commenting occasionally and grunting out a praise when Sansa adjusted in reaction—or disapproving hums when she did not.

“And then we work on speed?”

At this the Blackfish laughed from where he sat with Ellaria, shaking his head but refraining from commenting.

“Then we work on you not letting anyone read your movements. It won’t matter how—”

“—Fast I am if I basically tell them what I’m going to do.”

“Exactly,” Daemon said with a smile, taking a double step backwards to draw her towards him. It was a test, to see how she decided to follow. A retreat was not always a retreat, in combat, but sometimes a trap. Sansa did not hesitate, taking one then a second step as smoothly as walking, keeping her knife up to guard against him in case he went on the attack.

Just to keep her on her toes he did make a move towards her, wondering if she would remember how to deflect it. Because he didn’t have any true power behind the strike when Sansa parried back—and Sansa put all her strength behind hers—she knocked his dagger clean out of his hand. The weapon clattered to the ground and Sansa quickly retracted her arm from him, preventing him from grabbing her wrist and taking her dagger from her. Daemon grinned through his brief surprise, pleased with all she’d learned and retained so far. Ellaria clapped happily and there was pride on the Blackfish’s face as he watched them.

They might never make Sansa into a warrior but she would no longer go through life relying only on knights and guards to safeguard her.

* * *

_Lord of the Seven Kingdoms,_

_The Watch has stood to defend the innocent people of Westeros without thanks and without reward for hundreds of years. We ask for neither thanks nor praise nor admiration here. We ask for your help. Despite adding the forces of the King Above the Wall to our numbers we fear once again that we will be overwhelmed within the year._

_If we are overwhelmed there is no army of the living strong enough to defeat these deadmen. We ask not for our sakes but for yours. We declare you are no Lord of the Seven Kingdoms if you ignore us, for if you do you will not live much longer. Our deaths mean your own._

_Eddison Tollett, acting Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope to hear what you thought of this chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> So my new OTP is apparently Oberyn/Sansa (Obyrsa, totes) with a curvy side of Ellaria so there we have it. Please let me know what you think!


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